Freedom Summer, 1968
by GlovesForThis
Summary: Dipper and Mabel are on the run from abusive parents, and catching rides with strangers has landed them in Gravity Falls, Oregon. Out of money and desperate for a place to sleep, the twins decide to break into a semi-rundown shack in the woods only to discover it's not nearly as abandoned as they'd hoped. (1960s BillDip, Mabifica, Stancest.)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Welcome to our Gravity Falls story! Some things to know before reading: there are traces of non-tagged pairings but these will be extremely brief scenes, and period-typical homophobia is absent in this. There will be smut, but in adherence to the FFN guidelines, that content will only be available via this story's AO3 counterpart so check there if you're interested in the uncensored version. Thanks for reading and hope you enjoy!

* * *

"Mabel, I don't think this is working," Dipper said, his voice flat but containing an edge of anxiety as he pulled his soaked jacket into his shivering form even tighter. He and his twin sister had been waiting by the side of the road for what felt like hours, taking shelter from the downpour against a wooden welcome sign that announced they were just on the outskirts of a town named Gravity Falls.

"Don't be a downer, Dipper!" Mabel's voice was cheery, seemingly unfazed by the hours they had wasted near the road while pouring rain battered them. She reached over to ruffle her brother's wet hair affectionately, Dipper smoothing it down and moving the mussed strands away from his face while Mabel babbled on. "Someone has to show up soon. Why else would there be a road here? You know what they say, bro-bro! All roads lead to home!"

They had taken a gamble, sticking it out in hopes a vehicle would come roaring through and give them a ride to the city. Get to the city, get jobs, and blend in until they were able to recreate better lives for themselves. Under fake identities, if they absolutely had to, because law enforcement would be searching for the two teenage runaways that'd stolen away in the night, equipped with their wits and the bare necessities. That was their plan, and while it was a bit rough, it was better than living with their _parents…_ if they could even be called that, considering how deeply they appeared to wish he and Mabel weren't bogging down their lives.

Leaving home at fifteen years old was no easy feat, much less one that Dipper thought he'd be taking a stab at during his lifetime, but there was only so much he could take from parents who didn't seem to care whether they were dead or alive.

However, there was an unmistakable flaw in Dipper's grand scheme. Not one vehicle had passed them in the time they'd been here. While he was aware the road was off the highway and slightly secluded, Dipper hadn't realized it'd be this difficult to catch another lift. The previous one had been alright, or at least it had been until the middle-aged driver started to make highly inappropriate passes at Mabel as they crossed the state line into Oregon. He had to have been three times her age, with a sinister smile that gave Dipper the heebie-jeebies. Witnessing how the driver's flirtatious behavior made his sister uncomfortable, Dipper had spoken for both of them in his sharp demand to be let out at the next stop. A risky move to make, as they could have been denied or simply stranded somewhere, the latter perhaps their actual reality. At the time, he hadn't understood why the driver had shrugged, chuckled knowingly, and did as asked without protest, but he was beginning to understand.

He stole a glance at the sign looming above them, the bolded letters offering a hearty sentiment that he couldn't share. The tagline, reading 'nothing to see here, folks', wasn't exactly reassuring, and almost mocking considering there'd been nobody _to_ see them.

At first perplexed by Mabel's response, Dipper blinked at her. "What? I'm not sure that's how it works." But it wasn't the time to worry about that, they had a more pressing problem to contend with. It was getting dark, shadows sweeping the land and encasing the twins within the wilderness, the moonlight fighting to break through the thickness of the surrounding trees. It was eery, and he was beginning to feel claustrophobic with the woods closing in on them. "We might want to give up on the road for tonight. Nobody's coming." It was empty and had remained empty for hours.

Mabel wasn't sold, and he could see that in the way her eager eyes scanned the distance for movement. "Someone has to come," Mabel insisted. "Maybe we should go further down the road. There could be someone closer to this..." she squinted at the sign, "Gravity Falls! Wow, that's one dumb name. What does it even _mean_? Is it defying gravity? Ooh, do you think the town magically floats?"

"Mabel!" he strained, trying to grab her drifting attention. Although he wouldn't normally be irritated by Mabel's antics, Dipper's stress levels were peaking. He was scared, uncertain. His plan had gone awry, leaving him in a nervous state that was worsening as the woods grew darker since they were no better off than they were two hours ago in terms of shelter or reaching their destination. "We have to focus," he rose to his feet, wishing he had a pen to nibble on while he paced with his hands clasped behind his back. Struggling to formulate a backup plan, he recited the facts of the situation to himself. "It's getting dark, there are no cars, we still have our supplies..." he and Mabel both sported backpacks containing food and water, whatever clothing they could stuff inside, plus a couple personal keepsake items. "We can camp out nearby, just for this evening." Tomorrow, they could try the road again in what would preferably be better weather because he wasn't particularly fond of the drizzle that'd turned into a nonstop downpour less than an hour ago.

"That's a dumber idea than this town's name!" Mabel stomped her foot into the ground, sending droplets of mud and water flying, Dipper's hands rising to shield himself from the spray. "We don't even have shelter, Dipper. You'll go from being a downer to being a _drowner_ in all this icky mud."

It wasn't the time for corny puns, but Dipper ignored it in favor of addressing the bigger issue. "We can't stay out here all night, not next to a road!" Not just foolish and impractical, it was downright _dangerous_ despite the road's surprising lack of use… "And if we get going, we can gather some tree branches or brush or something, and make our own shelter." As far as Dipper was concerned, creating a makeshift campsite was their best option, the logical choice after taking their supplies into account. Remaining where they were was a risk he wasn't willing to bet on, and following the road would lead them into a town of questioning strangers who he didn't expect would be eager to usher in a set of runaways that'd shown up on their doorstep.

"I don't want to be stuck under some leaky shelter because you wanted to recreate something you read _once_ in the paper."

"Hey, those were quality tips!" Dipper immediately protested, unwilling to let that slide without defending his favorite columnist. He never had cared for television much, usually opting to bury his nose deep into the printed word, and "The Manly Man's Guide to Outdoor Living" was the specific article Mabel was referring to as she doubted his ability as a rugged woodsman. Dipper puffed his chest in a lame attempt to appear more capable, but that minor adjustment didn't change his gangly beanpole figure, nor did it substitute for the inch-and-a-half that Mabel had on him.

Before he could add anything more, Mabel ignored him and continued, "I never said we had to stay here all night, Dipper!" Her pleading gaze was fixed on him, and Dipper suppressed a sigh, posture deflating — it was hard to resist Mabel like this. "We should go toward the town before it gets too dark. That way, we're bound to run into someone who can help us get to a real city."

At the thought of going into town, fear struck into his heart. "Hasn't it occurred to you that we don't know these people?! We don't know anything about them, or this town!" a wild motion toward the wooden sign, an indication he was referring to the townsfolk of this apparent Gravity Falls. "No one will take us in, and if they do, what if they call the cops on us? Or are creepy, like that other guy? Or act completely kooky?"

"You're the one acting all crazy!" Mabel's voice had raised.

"I am not! I'm being _rational,_ there's a difference!"

"Yes you are! You're starting to sound like dad after drinking, all paranoid about people! I'm sure the good people of Groovity Falls will find it in their gentle, sweet hearts to take in a couple strays like us."

He rolled his eyes. "It's _Gravity_ Falls, actually."

"Same difference!"

"The point is," he said with more insistence, antsy to return to the topic at hand, "we have to think this through calmly and because I've already done that, I can tell you the clear-headed course of action is to set up a camp for ourselves."

With exasperation, Mabel threw up her hands. "Fine! We can set up camp, but if mud soaks through my sweater it's _your_ fault, Dipper."

He hadn't wanted the tension to come to this, the place of frustration where one of them was forced to angrily relented to the other's wishes. They were a team—partners in crime—on the run from an abusive household, and they had to work together if they were going to pull through successfully.

Guilt gnawing in the pit of his stomach, he squirmed to remove his jacket, grappling minimally with the straps of his backpack before he could slip the garment from his shoulders. Dipper offered it to Mabel with a small albeit sad half-smile on his lips. "Here, it sounds like you need it more than I do," he reasoned.

"I…" Mabel hesitated before she accepted the jacket, shuffling the backpack so she could slip into the relative warmth of the light coat. "Thanks, Dipper. You're the best."

Dipper let out a quiet laugh, using one hand to scratch self-consciously at the back of his neck, unsure how to respond to the genuine compliment. "I don't know about that, but uh, thanks."

As they walked, the stench of uneasiness hung in the air, suspended somewhere between panic and the disbelief that they were actually doing this. The severity of it hadn't set in yet, not for Dipper, since it felt like he should be returning home to squabbling parents any minute now. It wasn't the sort of squabbling that he and Mabel did as siblings; at the end of the day, they were still best friends. Contrastly, their parents' arguments were composed of seeking-to-emotionally-maim words launched at the other person, their sole intention to inflict as much hurt as possible.

Perhaps if he wasn't terribly distracted by the hopeless endeavor that was snagging a ride to the city and now hiking through the foreign wilderness of Gravity Falls, he'd ponder the question: have their parents noticed yet? And with a heavy heart, he'd use previous experiences as evidence to arrive at the conclusion that they hadn't.

After all, there'd been a slew of times he and Mabel had been forgotten at school and waited for hours for someone to pick them up just to trek the distance themselves in the dark, not to mention how many evenings their parents would rather go out together or with their own friends instead of their children. If repeated verbal reminders of their uselessness was icing on the cake, then being outright told they were unwanted was the cherry on top.

So if they had, by some miracle, noticed their disappearance, Dipper was certain they would have shrugged their shoulders and gone back to the television show they were watching, the activity that helped them float through life as if they had no dependents to begin with. They could pretend they hadn't accidentally gotten pregnant with twins, too early on in life to be financially or emotionally capable of caring for them. Television shows aided them in forgetting he and Mabel even existed, he imagined, and the proof that it worked astoundingly well was in front of them.

The _crack_ of the twig beneath his foot startled him, making him jump and disrupting his thoughts. Faced once more by the present, he couldn't shake the haunted feeling that came with the looming, dark pine trees that surrounded them. In a way, it almost felt like they were being watched. Were woods always this creepy? He couldn't recall California ever giving him such chilling vibes.

Stealing a glance at Mabel, he noted how upbeat she looked with a starry-eyed gaze and beginnings of a grin, despite how she'd been less than thrilled to venture into the woods in search of a spot to take shelter. Instead of skirting the growing mud puddles as Dipper attempted to do, Mabel embraced the opportunity by jumping toward them with glee causing the dirty water to splash everywhere. Dodging the droplets was a pain, but not enough for Dipper to ask her to take it easy. It didn't matter when he was already soaked from head to toe from the rainwater. Always obsessed with plotting their next steps or fretting about the unknown, he wished he could be more like Mabel, carefree, optimistic—

"Dipper, watch out!"

Huh?

He hardly had time to react to her warning before his body came to a painful halt, colliding with something hard and wood-like and unyielding. While he was distracted by Mabel's war on puddles, he had failed to see the tree in his walking path. "Oww," he whined softly as he rubbed his head.

"Silly Dilly," Mabel chided playfully. "I told you to watch out!"

A shudder as he rubbed the new pain point on his forehead, "Please, never call me that again." The wound stung enough to imply it was going to be quite an impressive bump, if not a full blown bruise.

"No promises!"

They walked on in silence for several minutes, Dipper's eyes scanning for a suitable location to take shelter in. He was forced to squint since the darkness was impeding his vision, limiting how far they could see before whatever laid ahead was wholly consumed by the blackness of night. "Do you see anywhere we can stay for the night?" He asked, glancing around. The woods looked just as uninviting as they had before, but significantly darker. Thin, pale beams were the only source of light, filtering through the trees and shining on the undergrowth.

Mabel shook her head. "Weren't you the one who wanted to play Survivorboy and make a shelter out of sticks?"

"It's not that simple! We'll need sticks for the foundation, but we can make it moderately rain-proof with leaves and bushes." Dipper explained, rattling off bits of knowledge obtained from the newspaper article. "Then we can reinforce it with more sticks, and we'll have a solid shelter to sleep in." He could envision it perfectly: they would have a formidable, man-made shelter created from just the forest's resources. He could stand by his handiwork proudly, raise his chin, and gloat to Mabel, 'I told you so' as they took in the sight of their natural castle.

...It probably wouldn't be that good, but Dipper liked to believe it'd at least hold up under the pelting rain. "Once we have the supplies, it'll be a piece of cake. Maybe we should split up, grab anything useful that we find, and meet back here?"

"Okay..." Turning away from him, he watched as Mabel began to search for materials for his dream home.

Mabel's departure left Dipper alone with his thoughts, accompanied by his determination to make this work because he hated the thought of having dragged Mabel out here for it to be a catastrophic failure. His eyes narrowed to see in the darkness, collecting sticks that'd hold up their foundation whenever he saw one. It wasn't the most comfortable or easy process with his wet clothes clinging to him, and his shoes filled with water, but he was slowly building a decent pile of suitable twigs.

Careful not to stray far from their meeting place, Dipper remained nearby and listened for Mabel's footsteps; he didn't want her to wander off either. He knew Mabel could be distracted by the smallest of things, drawn away from the task at hand, and he wasn't going to lose her to the creepy woods. As runaways, the odds were already against them, and stacking extra challenges onto their plate wouldn't do them any good.

"Hey Dipper, I found something!" Mabel's excited voice rang through the trees, the sound of feet splashing through water alerting Dipper to her rapid approach. "It's a huge pile of sticks lumped together! Like someone already made a shelter, just for us!"

Startled, he followed the sound of her excited voice and watery footsteps. "What are you talking about? Is someone else living out here?" Encountering another person—a potentially dangerous stranger—in the middle of the woods on a dark, rainy night wasn't Dipper's idea of a nice time, and he was seconds away from telling Mabel they should return to the main road.

"Just look!" When he arrived by her side, she thrusted her arm out to point in the distance. Faintly, the silhouette of a shack could be seen, brightened by the ghostly moonlight. It formed the illusion that the cabin-like house was glowing with mysteriousness.

"Oh, that's great," his voice cracked, one hand running anxiously through his soaked hair as he surveyed the structure, "you've found a murder hut, Mabel." Lone cabin in the middle of the woods, located on the edge of a sleepy, small town. That screamed safe, and totally wasn't reminiscent of the fairytale that ended with two children being nearly devoured by a witch.

"It doesn't look so bad to me," Mabel said. "Maybe they'll take us in for the night! Or we can sneak in to get out of this storm!"

He made a face and shook his head, taking a cautionary step back, "Uh, no thanks. I would prefer to see the sunrise tomorrow." Whoever secluded themselves so far into the woods within a semi-broken down cabin couldn't be the friendliest or sanest sort, and Dipper didn't intend on meeting the owner tonight.

But by the time the words had left his mouth, Mabel was already running toward the building. She came to a stop beside one of the windows, her hands pushing against the window as she attempted to peer inside.

Eyes widening, he made a startled noise and bolted to eliminate the distance between them, grasping her shoulder urgently to stop his sister from advancing further. "What are you doing?!" it was a hiss of a whisper, keeping his voice down in fear of the cabin's inhabitant overhearing. "We can't just go inside!" He was desperate to change her mind, and he rambled, "What happened to making a shelter, or… or staying by the road? There's no need to _break into_ someone's home!"

A short laugh escaped Mabel, batting his hand off her shoulder. "What are you, a _chicken_? Nothing's stopping us from going in… the place looks like no one's lived here for years. Besides, if we go in we'll get a _real_ shelter and we won't be stranded outside in the storm."

"But, Mabel—!"

"Or are you too scared of being dry for once? I didn't know chickens liked being wet! Bawk! Bawk! Bawk! That's what you sound like, Dipper!"

"I don't sound anything like that!" Exasperation bubbled in Dipper at Mabel's impression of a chicken, pacing as he tried to organize his thoughts. His mind was spinning too fast to come up with a reason good enough for Mabel, one that would convince her to leave this murder hut alone and never look back.

"Please, Dipper! You're the one that wanted to go into the woods to begin with — why can't we try my idea for once?"

At that, his resolve crumbled with pitiful swiftness. Dipper remembered their brief bickering near the road and how Mabel had trusted him to venture into the wilderness, and now he realized he would be a terrible brother if he didn't do the same for her. He stopped pacing to look seriously at Mabel, concern and anxiety etched into his features. "Are you sure?"

The look he received was grave, surprising Dipper since she rarely displayed such soberness. "I have never been more sure in my life."

"Okay," he gave in with a sigh, working to muster a brave tone. "I.. I can go first." He could handle it, whatever was on the other side. A new plan was taking shape in his head, and he explained, "I'll go first, look around inside—hold on, let me get the flashlight out," he slipped the backpack from his shoulders, distracted by verbalizing the plan as he fished for the light, "and if it's safe, I'll call to you and then you can come—"

"Okay, but counter-plan: I beat you inside, and tell you if it's safe, and then my Little Dippy bro-bro is safe and sound."

He could hardly get a word in before she was pushing against the window. The frame lifted easily, as if nothing was keeping it in place, and a heartbeat later Mabel was pulling herself up and into the building. "Mabel!" No response, only silence – and after a moment or so of waiting, icy uneasiness settled in the pit of his stomach, pulse skyrocketing as he debated calling for her again.

"Omygosh Dipper, you need to see this!" Mabel's voice was frantic. "There're bones! I think a witch boiled it in a pot so the skin melted off! It's so white!"

Horror latched onto Dipper immediately, but nagging at him was the urge to get beside Mabel; they could get out of this if they worked together, fight against whatever demon lived inside that cabin. Blood pounding in his ears as his body shook wildly in terror, he rushed to the window and carelessly launched himself through it, a singular thought repeating in his mind: get to Mabel and make sure she's safe. That was all that mattered. His own safety was secondary, fueling his impulsive moment of courageousness as he vaulted into the cabin without fretting over what was waiting for him on the other side.

The next thing he felt was his foot catching on the window's frame, a shrill and pained yelp escaping Dipper as his body gracelessly flopped forward, hands flailing, grasping for purchase but coming up short. Stumbling and struggling to regain his balance, he fell into something wooden and felt it give way a second later, a loud _CLASH!_ resounding throughout the entire building. Although the noise suggested he'd broken something made of glass, he was more concerned with how _he_ felt broken.

Dipper's lithe form was crumpled in a sad heap atop the wooden flooring, chest rising and falling erratically as he worked past the initial daze to conclude he was definitely hurt. "Ugh, I—" he began to groan, breaking off into a screech as he noticed a shrunken, ugly head mere inches away from his face. Its dead eyes stared into his very soul. Despite the throb of pain in his chest, he inhaled sharply, panicked, and scurried to sit upright, placing as much distance as he could between him and the disgustingly grotesque head. He was right: this _was_ a murder hut, and he'd just made enough noise to wake the population of the town. "Please be abandoned, please be abandoned…"

He _really_ didn't want to meet whoever lived here, not after coming face-to-face with a shrunken head and apparently, Mabel had seen bones. That was enough to lead him to believe they shouldn't hang around — that was the equivalent of waiting to be brutally slaughtered by some madman.

Across the room, he glimpsed the outline of a moving door opening. "Mabel?" his voice was a hushed whisper as he searched the pool of blackness for the outline of his sister. "Mabel!" He could see the beginnings of a shadowy figure, but something felt off. Why wasn't she talking…? Mabel was never one for few words.

Then it hit Dipper. The figure that approached him didn't seem _human_. Faintly he could make out the shape of the head, it was massive and a dull white, and almost looked _bony_.

Fear paralyzed him, but moments later his trembling hands searched desperately for the flashlight he'd pulled out of his backpack. Realizing it must have rolled somewhere, Dipper pawed around in the darkness and clicked on the light when he finally managed to locate it. The beam spotlighted the monstrosity looming over him, confirming his suspicions: it was a skull, the black holes of its eye sockets pumping an extra dose of terror-induced adrenaline throughout his body.

The light failed to impede the movements of the creature, and he brandished his flashlight in what he hoped appeared to be a semi-threatening manner, hands visibly shaking from his nerves. "Stay back, demon! I - I have a flashlight, and I'm not afraid to use it!"

Much to his relief, it seemed to have some effect on the monster. It stopped its approach, raising its arms to… remove its head? For a fleeting second, Dipper was baffled—what _was_ this monster?—until he heard the sound of Mabel's laughter.

"Hahaha, I can't believe you fell for that!"

Disbelief sparked in him, and he gasped, " _Mabel?_ That was _you_?" It sunk in, and he buried his face in his hands, embarrassment and annoyance prickling at him. "I can't believe you. This is serious!"

"Yeah, this was _seriously_ funny!"

He tried to stand to brush himself off, but a twinge of pain kept him seated. "And I think I'm hurt." Falling through a window clumsily might do that to a person.

Mabel made a tsking noise. "Maybe you shouldn't have flopped through the window like a fish out of water."

"Not the time," he wheezed. "We have to get out of here." A bit easier said than done with his body in the state that it was, but tripping and hurting himself was far less severe than the evils within this cabin — what normal person had an incredibly large animal skull lying around, and a shrunken head? Who knew what other gruesome oddities were hidden from view?

* * *

Awoken by a loud _CRASH_ and a not-so-masculine scream, Stan's immediate reaction was to grab his bat. There weren't many things in the sleepy town of Gravity Falls that'd make such a racket at this hour, and he was prepared for anything from a rampaging Bigfoot to dumbass police officers goofing around. And he swore, if it was those damn troublemaking friends of Wendy's...

Leaving his bedroom behind as he headed down the hall toward the living room where he believed the ruckus originated, he could faintly hear the sound of a girl speaking. The closer he got, the more the voice seemed to be coming from the gift shop. It seemed they had a filthy, no-good thief afoot, eh? He'd teach them to steal from the Mystery Shack! Old Batsy would put them in their place – and that place was a bloodied pulp on the floor! Soos could scrape up the intruder with the spatulas tomorrow.

As he neared the gift shop, he could even make out a small portion of the discussion. Was there more than one? Fantastic! Another people pulp for Soos to scoop!

"Why are you–"

Without missing a beat, he threw open the door that led to the gift shop and stalked inside, his baseball bat raised in preparation for a good ol' whacking. At a glance, there seemed to be two intruders – a male and female teenager, and he didn't recognize them as part of Wendy's Crew. Or as residents of Gravity Falls, for that matter.

Flipping on the light switch to flood the Mystery Shack's gift shop with brightness and get a better look at the intruders, he noticed the male teenager was visibly intimidated by his bulky, muscular form—but really, who wouldn't be, Stan thought with a touch of arrogance—from the way he gulped and his teeth worried his bottom lip.

More importantly, his attention was captured by the damage done to his property. His display case was ruined, shards of glass and pieces of wood scattered on his floor, and the dinosaur skull from the living room was sitting near the wreckage. What the hell did these children do? They looked a little old to be playing T-Rex.

Even if his ultra-nerdy twin brother Ford might disagree.

Stan watched as the kid's eyes flicked between the shrunken head and the skull, and the male scrambled to step protectively in front of the other one—appearing to be in mild pain while doing so. In what Stan thought was an attempt to be threatening, he puffed his chest and growled, "Stay back, you… you witch doctor!" It was said with the amount of confidence Stan would expect from a self-conscious pre-teen kid, and this one was obviously older than that. Slightly.

" _Witch doctor_?" he barked. "You barge into _my_ house, break _my_ display case, and have the _nerve_ to call me a _witch doctor_?" Stan glowered at the boy. "If you weren't some lousy kid, I'd have beat you over the head with my bat by now."

Blinking rapidly, the intruder seemed to be at a loss for words, sputtering out nothing but incoherent sounds. Stan raised an eyebrow. "Come on, kid, what do you got to say for yourself?" It was a demand, his voice gruff.

"We'll leave! Just please don't hurt us!" was the squeaky response that he finally was able to drag from him, his hands wringing together with apprehension. "...And—and we're not _kids_ , we're teenagers."

That didn't answer his question, and he smacked his bat into his open palm in impatience. "I asked what you had to say. You're not going anywhere until you tell me what you were doing with my stuff, _kid!_ " He made an effort to emphasis 'kid', as that seemed to agitate the lad.

"What do you _want_ from us?!" he asked, sounding exasperated and stressed, a hand raking through his damp, brunet hair. They were both dripping wet, explained easily by the ongoing downpour outside, but it wasn't so obvious why they had backpacks — he was at a loss with that one. "And I already told you, _we're teens!_ " The way he stole a glance at the window made Stan wonder if he was seriously going to make a run for it.

"I want to know why you broke into my house, ruined one of my display cases, and fucked with my skull!"

"I can explain the skull!" The girl piped in. "I made a scary costume out of it to mess with Dippy!" Dippy? His parents must've hated him. "Do you want to see it?"

"Mabel, shh!" he turned to face her, shaking his head to presumably encourage her to stay quiet. "This guy," his hand waved carelessly in Stan's direction, "is exactly the kind of kook I was referring to!"

"Who you callin' a kook, kid?"

The kid whipped around to meet his gaze, and Stan could see he wasn't expecting to be called out on it. "Who do you think? You're… a wacko, man!" He shouted back as his arms flapped wildly, motioning to the array of gift shop items. "I mean, look at all this!"

"'All ' _this_ ' is called my job, kiddo. Something you wouldn't know about, considering you look like you just came out of a pig pen."

The irritation was written across his face at that, and Stan felt a pinch of satisfaction from how simple it was to get under his skin. "You don't know anything about us!" his voice cracked on the words, and Stan snickered loudly. His laughter only seemed to agitate the kid further, leading him to let out a frustrated noise. Maybe Stan would've felt bad for him if his childishness wasn't so funny.

"You're intruding on and vandalized my property. That's all I need to know, kiddo. Now tell me what the hell you're doing before I use my bat and beat it out of you anyway!"

Dippy—apparently—reached for Mabel (was it?) and grabbed her wrist. "We don't have time for this, let's just go."

"No, Dipper – he never said if he wanted to see my costume!" Mabel yanked her wrist out of Dippy ... Dipper's … whatever the hell his name was' grip, and she ran over to where the skull was on the floor.

Stan watched in amusement as she placed the skull over her head. "I used this to scare him when the lights were off," the girl excitedly said. "He almost had a panic attack!"

"You just surprised me! I wasn't scared," Dipper protested hotly, blushing and folding his arms in defense. "I don't see why this is even important right now."

Stan let out a deep laugh, "That's great!" He knew he shouldn't indulge a home invader, but how could he not approve of the Dippy one being spooked? The boy was being difficult. Maybe they could scare the answer out of him…

The familiar noise of the vending machine redirected his attention to the hidden entrance of the basement; the machine moving aside to reveal his brother, still dressed in his standard laboratory attire. Ford appeared mildly startled after a cursory examination of the room. Stan could almost hear his mind whirring away, surely trying to make sense of what he was witnessing — it wasn't everyday that he emerged from his hidey-hole in the middle of the night to see two unfamiliar faces, both intruders, one of which sporting the huge skull. He looked puzzled and hesitant, as if mentally toying with the possibility of turning on his heels and scurrying back downstairs without a word. A clearing of his throat and an adjustment of his glasses later, Ford averted his gaze. "How… how long have I been down there?"

"Let's see…" Stan looked at Dippy (or whatever his name was.) "You're still a kid, I'd say twelve given how difficult you've decided to be, and since it takes around nine months for children to pop out … thirteen years?"

Stan stole a sideways glance at Ford. He looked utterly lost, but his eyebrows were furrowed together in deep contemplation. "Ah, I don't understand.. Stan, what is going on?" A pause as he seemed to fully take in the intruding teens. "Who are they, and… why is my dinosaur skull—?" It was a strange albeit refreshing change of pace for his genius brother to be thoroughly stumped, rendered unable to even suitably use words.

A haughty cough came from Dipper, his eyes on Stan. "We're _fifteen_. What are you, twenty?"

"These two _hooligans_ broke into our house and wrecked one of our displays. Your skull was just used for a costume." Stan couldn't give less of a fuck about the skull. It wasn't damaged like his display case. That costed three, no – three _hundred_ dollars, and he'd be damned if the kids didn't replace it. "I'm twenty-four, kiddo. You can say you're fifteen all you want, but all you've done is act like a pre-teen and fuck up my shit."

" _Language_ — and how many times do I have to ask you to refrain from terrorizing children?" Ford pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closing for a second. When he opened them again, Stan could identify the uncertainty lingering there. "But that is rather… concerning. Would you like me to phone the police?"

" _We're not children!"_ Dipper seemed to lose his restraint, but quickly recollected it. "Please don't call the cops, we'll leave. I already said we'd leave, but this guy wouldn't let us go!"

Stan shook his head. "Stop saying you're not a child, Dippy. You've been acting immature this entire time, fucking around my house and refusing to even explain yourself. You're not going _anywhere_ until you tell my why you broke into my home, and if you don't start talking in the next thirty seconds, I _will_ have Poindexter here phone the cops while I beat the ever-living shit out of you!"

Ford snapped, "Stanley!" Stan already knew what he'd done wrong, but he didn't want to hear about it. Ford could bitch and moan about his colorful language all he wanted; as far as he was concerned, a home invasion was the perfect time to swear like a sailor and make brutal threats.

"My name is _Dipper_! We were just looking for shelter from the rain, okay? And… I may have sort of," the kid looked guilty, rubbing his elbow awkwardly as his pupils shifted, "fallen in."

Stan furrowed his eyebrows. "What, are you two on the run from somethin'? You piss off the pigs?" Dipper's eyes grew as large as saucers, but shook his head.

"Not everyone has a criminal history," was the mutter from Ford.

"Ya sure about that, Sixer? Two out of two of us does! Ain't you supposed to be the smart one, statistics an' all?"

If his attention wasn't solely on Ford, he would've taken great amusement and pleasure in the sudden panic that crossed Dipper's face at the revelation that he was trapped in a room with two self-identified criminals. Instead, all he witnessed was Ford's eyes narrowing at him. A pretentious hmmph. "Yes, well, that was _because_ of you."

"It doesn't matter who's at fault, Brainiac. It's still in your name!" Stan had no shame. It wasn't _his_ fault he just so happened to have Ford's license on hand when he got pulled over...

Ford gave another little huff, "We are not having this discussion right now."

"Anyway," Stan returned to their previous conversation. "How'd you fall in? You have arms, don'tcha? They look a bit noodly but I wouldn't have thought them weaker than a newborn kitten's."

"I don't know! I thought Mabel was in trouble and… I was trying to get to her."

"Falling through a window isn't the most efficient way to get to your girlfriend." The sudden, matching expressions of equal disgust and horror suggested he'd made a mistake in his assumption.

"Ew! Ew! Ew! No, we're siblings! He's my brother!" The girl spoke up once more, finally taking off the skull. He was surprised she kept it on so long – from experience, he knew it wasn't easy to talk in.

"Twins, actually," Dipper supplied.

He didn't understand why they seemed so repulsed by the thought of dating a sibling, but whatever. Maybe they were closeted. "Alright twinsies," Stan began. "Since you broke my display, you won't be leaving until you've replaced it. I'm–"

Dipper cut in, "You can't keep us here, that's kidnapping."

"Have it your way," he replied easily, looking to his own twin. "Ford, get the cops." How he saw it, they could either stay here or with those lunatic cops in the courthouse.

"Wait!" he squeaked, the panic dripping from his exclamation. "We'll stay."

"That's what I thought." Stan reached out to pat Dipper's head. "I'm a fair guy, Dippy, so here's what we'll do. You're going to go to bed – it's late, we're all tired. There's a couple beds upstairs in the attic you can use. Be up by 8 o'clock sharp in the morning and we'll discuss things during breakfast. Ya got that?"

With a glance to Mabel for confirmation, Dipper nodded. "Got it," he awkwardly trailed off, staring at Stan, "uh.. Stan, is it?"

"Yeah, it's Stan. Mr. Pines if you're feelin' fancy, or Stanley if you wanna be stuck-up like Poindexter here." He jabbed a thumb at Ford. "Now get to bed you two. Tomorrow's gonna be a long day."

* * *

After the teenagers—Mabel and Dipper, Ford supposed—disappeared upstairs to go to bed, he had retreated into the basement laboratory where he informed his assistant-slash-boyfriend, Fiddleford, of everything that'd happened. He'd been just as perplexed by the sequence of events that'd befallen the Mystery Shack this evening.

Ford still didn't know what to make of it, but he wasn't personally in favor of housing them. Certainly, they were probably decent individuals, but did they have a place here? Especially after _breaking in_?

He had to speak with Stan about this, not that he had the slightest illusion he would get anywhere with his stubbornness, since it would be nothing short of a miracle if they didn't part in anger after the discussion.

Returning upstairs, he noticed the gift shop's door was ajar and approached, stepping onto the porch to be met with the sight of Stan lounging comfortably, cigarette hanging from his lips. It was no shock to Ford to find him there, and besides, he could admit it was a nice evening. The usually-hot weather of June was cooler with the storms that were passing through.

Joining him on the couch, Ford sat down beside his brother, leaving a fair bit of space between them. A sigh tumbled from him as he raised his head to the stars, noting how vibrant they appeared this evening even through the rainy haze. There was a sweet scent lingering in the air, but it was soon replaced by the stench of cigarette smoke, causing Ford's nose to wrinkle in distaste. "Do you really have to do that? Smoking is a horrendous health hazard."

"What?" Stan exhaled a cloud of smoke. "It's good for the stress. What're you doing out here anyway, Sixer? I figured you'd be holed up in the basement, with your ... gadgets n' stuff."

His eyebrows raised, all twelve fingers drumming gently against his slacks. "Is it too difficult for you to believe I've simply come to enjoy your company?"

"Yeah. You go to Diddleford if you wanna enjoy someone's company. And you give him the kisses. Whatever happened to giving those to me?"

Oh.

So Stan was in one of _those_ moods this evening, and Ford wondered how adamant his brother was going to be about it, whether or not he should simply go back inside now to avoid wasting both of their time… No, he could handle this with patience and grace.

"Fiddleford," he corrected exhaustedly, but didn't know why he bothered. Stan knew his name, or at least he _should_ know since they'd been a group of friends since childhood. Throat tightening, he merely shook his head, unwilling to talk about _that_ when they had two strangers taking up residence in the Mystery Shack. The newcomers were the larger concern, in Ford's opinion.

"Tickleford, whatever. Close enough. You still go to him over me. You only go to me when you want something."

"How foolish of me," Ford said dryly, wanting to roll his eyes at Stan's antics. "Stan, would _you_ like to assist me in building a quantum destabilizer gun?"

"Sounds hot. When can I start?"

"After you've completed eight years of collegiate-level work in a relevant field."

"Ehh, I'll just stick to my street smarts. You'll be thankful for them one day, Sixer."

Sensing this was his opportunity to talk about the real subject at hand, Ford asked, "And is it your _street smarts_ that lead you to believe letting two home invaders stay here was a good idea?"

"What, you jealous they'll be taking your job?"

"Heavens, no," he scoffed, classifying the mere thought as absurd. He didn't miss his temporary position at the Mystery Shack and was glad to be conducting his research full-time. "If anything, I pity them — considering they'll have to work for you."

"They'll be grateful they're working for me," Stan responded. "It's me or the cops, and I'll at least provide them with Stancakes."

He made a face, shuddering. Stan's cooking was low on the list of things he missed, as he never could get over the scraggly hairs sticking out every-which-way. It had been repulsive. "Feeding them Stancakes is borderline cruel and unusual punishment. They might call the cops on themselves." While he said it seriously, it had a hint of playfulness; he never had been great at indicating he was joking.

Stan shook his head. "You're insulting my cookin' now, Poindexter? I should kick ya to the curb and let the nerdy kid take over the basement."

Was he referring to… Dippy? Dipper? That one had appeared to be on the _nerdy_ side, as Stan put it. Knowing Stan was far from serious in his threat, Ford couldn't help but smile a little, crookedly. "Just make sure he remembers to feed Fiddleford three times per day." Or he'd have one grouchy assistant on his hands.

All amusement drained from Stan's face. "You know Fuckleford is only here because of you. Otherwise, I wouldn't let him hang around my house."

"Is Fiddleford not home-invader-y," he wanted to cringe at his own phrasing, "enough for you?"

"He's too brother-invadery for me. Your ass used to be mine, Sixer, before you ran off to college and got all … _gay_ with him."

That caught him by surprise and Ford choked, a furious blush spreading over his cheeks. He hadn't expected their banter to turn so quickly, but he hoped he could steer their conversation back into the right direction while preventing the current topic from continuing. His love life—nor his… body parts—had nothing to do with this, and Stan's wishful thinking was no more than that, a fantasy that his brother entertained for some reason. Their previous _relations_ , he supposed was the most appropriate term, had ended long ago during their teenage years.

" _Stanley_. That… that's—" he fidgeted to adjust his glasses, and settled on, "...irrelevant. We need to talk about those children."

"It's not irrelevant, Sixer!" Stan shuffled close to him, flicking his cigarette into the grass, and demolishing the space Ford had initially set between them on the couch. "Come on, you can't say you don't miss the good ol' days when we were fucking in the back of pa's car."

Muscles going stiff at the contact and gaze darting, he wasn't sure his face could get any hotter but was searching for an escape. He didn't want this, not any of it — Stan was uncomfortably close, uncomfortably brazen. "You're insufferable."

"You're stuffable."

Eyes going wide, Ford squeaked at the more-than-suggestive implication. He willed his mind to stop spinning one million miles per minute, it was already hard enough to focus when Stan was being like… this. They'd had this discussion many times over, too many times, and he didn't know what his brother was hoping to gain from it. Squirming to put more distance between them again, he ended up feeling squeezed, wedged between the armrest and Stan while leaning comically away from him. Most of his upper body was draped awkwardly over the armrest. "Could we return to the more pressing matter?" he asked, impatience leaking into his voice.

Stan shuffled back into his original spot, restoring some of the space between them. "You mean the kids? What about 'em?"

Why Stan didn't comprehend the glaring problem was a mystery to him. "We don't _know_ them. They shouldn't be working at the Shack, much less living in it!" He fell quiet for a second, lips twisting into a bitter smile that lacked humor. "But it _is_ fitting, I suppose, having criminals working for a criminal." If tonight was an indication, they were probably on the same level, morally, as Stan was.

"Ford," the voice of his brother had a slight edge to it. "This is my house. I make the rules, and I say these kids _will_ be staying here and lending a hand, at least until they pay off the damage. You should just be thankful I let your sex buddy stay here too."

"I'll have you know our relationship is strictly professional, with the tiniest hint of romance." But now that he gave it some thought, he couldn't recall the last time he'd done anything remotely romantic with Fiddleford. Oh well, that was unimportant at the moment.

And Ford didn't have to be told it was _technically_ Stan's house to do with as he pleased, but that was because he'd been on the run from the law basically ever since he'd been kicked out by their father. It was by a random stroke of luck that Stan managed to grab this land for dirt cheap. But he didn't appreciate Stan attempting to throw that in his face as some sort of power move, essentially threatening Fiddleford's residency as well. "Forgive me if I'm skeptical about your choice of housemates," he said coldly. A host of bad memories resurfaced as he recalled one particular guest...

Stan laughed as he pulled out another cigarette from the case and lit it, "Are you still pouting over Bill? I love that kid. It's not his fault you left your sciency garbage lying where he could get it. Think of it like this: if you didn't want it to be destroyed, ya shouldn't have left it lying around." He brought the cigarette to his lips. "Pretty dumb move to be so careless with your shit, Sixer. I thought you were supposed to be the smart one."

Inhaling sharply, he felt a pinch of offense at how Stan referred to his belongings. Sciency _garbage_ — why couldn't he at least _attempt_ to be respectful? He didn't go around calling the Mystery Shack's souvenirs trashy or fake or fraudulent, but that was exactly what they were. A waste of space and money, and dancing on the edge of insulting to his career. Shaking the thought away, Ford's jaw set as he considered Bill. The same Bill who had lived with them for a while and acted atrociously. "He not only intentionally destroyed my belongings and projects, but he's _stolen_ from me without showing a single shred of remorse." The disappearances of the memory gun's prototype and human anatomy textbook were not accidents, and that wasn't even topping the list of monstrously evil things Bill had done while staying here.

He didn't miss Bill's presence in the Shack at all, and he was glad his visits were contained to the times he and Stan went drinking or street racing together. Both were activities he disapproved of, but it was better than living with that delinquent.

Stan glanced at him, breathing out a cloud of smoke. "Look, I know you don't like it when people _borrow_ your stuff, but if you ever bothered to ask for it back he'd be happy to oblige. I don't understand what all this fuss is about. The guy's a real gas to hang with – it's not either of our faults you just happened to dislike him with a passion."

" _Borrow_ my stuff?" he questioned, contempt flickering within him. "Did you _borrow_ my perpetual motion machine?" Stan and Bill had both destroyed projects incredibly dear to him with days of work and thought poured into them, going entirely down the drain due to their carelessness.

" _That_ was an accident, Stanford." Stan's tone matched his in bitterness.

It'd been seven years, but he figured some part of him would always be upset about that because Stan's _accident_ (ha, Ford thought) costed him his dream school. A potential future that now would never come to fruition thanks to Stan. "But it remains my dislike of Bill is entirely justified, and I wish you would take it upon yourself to surround yourselves with friends that won't inevitably land themselves in jail."

"Jail ain't so bad. You should give it a try sometime, Sixer."

Ford let out a heavy sigh. "I imagine that if I continue to associate with you, that's exactly where I'll end up."

"We can try an experiment," Stan offered. "Find out what happens when Stanford Pines drops the soap around Stanley Pines."

"Excuse me?" He had the faintest suspicion he knew what that meant, but...

"We'll have some raunchy sex, Poindexter."

And there it was. A strained noise escaped him, and he was back to blushing. Even the tips of his ears felt hot. It wasn't a result of any arousal, but a reaction to the discussion of sex and sexuality, amplified when that was referring to sex with _him_. "I… I hypothesize that won't go over well."

"It's the lack of lube, isn't it?"

Clearing his throat, Ford rose to his feet and said, "Goodnight, Stan." He'd had enough of Stan's incessant flirting and sexual passes at him, as it'd been more than plenty for one evening, perhaps for one lifetime, and he didn't know how else to convey to Stan that he was with Fiddleford. The fact that he was already in a relationship didn't seem to be sinking into his brother's thick skull, or maybe he simply didn't care — the latter was extremely probable, considering it was Stanley.

"Wait a second," Stan was quick to speak, bringing Ford to a pause near the screen door. He looked at him expectantly, head cocked to the side with curiosity. "You remember how those kids got all flustered when I told Dippy falling through the window wasn't the best way to get to his girlfriend? I wanted to follow that up by saying if they were into each other, they wouldn't be judged here. As, you know, siblings that're together. In the sexy way." Stan gave him a suggestive eyebrow wiggle.

"While I commend your rationality," since judgment from Stan would be calling the kettle black under these circumstances, "I don't believe you should be encouraging further illegal activities." They'd already broken into the Shack. "Isn't one crime enough for tonight?"

"Did I steal your heart?"

"Goodness, no. I have standards, a concept I presume you would know nothing about," Ford retorted tiredly, wishing his brother wouldn't be so obtuse or persistent about this. He didn't have feelings for Stan, not… the romantic sort, not the kind Stan wanted him to have. " _Goodnight_ , Stan."

"Ah, I always knew you had **stan** dards. Dream of me, Sixer. I'm much more good looking than Dingleford." The sole response he received was the sound of the screen door slamming behind Ford.

* * *

Upstairs, the twins had found their attic room and were beginning to lightly unpack. Said unpacking was tentative in Dipper's case, at least. Mabel had already taken all the clothes from her bag and hung up some in their closet space, making herself thoroughly at home when they'd been here a grand total of about an hour. By the time she was done, he was sure there'd be room for nothing else with how much she insisted on bringing.

"Maybe we shouldn't be so quick to unpack everything," he suggested to her. "We're not planning on staying here for long, are we? Just until we pay off that display case?" He took comfort in sticking to the original plan of reaching a bigger city, since it would decrease their chances of being recognized by anybody. In small towns, as it seemed Gravity Falls was, everybody knew everyone else and could lead to them being dragged back to their negligent parents.

"I dunno," Mabel said. "I like it here!"

"We've been here for like, an hour. How could you possibly like it? I mean, there's Stan and he calls me _Dippy—"_

"You called him a witch doctor." Mabel reminded him with a giggle.

" _—_ and he threatened to turn us over to the cops! Multiple times!" And honestly, Dipper was a little afraid of Stan because he was a hulking bundle of sheer muscle, and had a hardened look about him, like he could completely disassemble Dipper with a single, well-aimed punch.

The other one was less intimidating, not as bulky or broad-framed — Poindexter? Sixer? Ford? How many names could a person have? Probably aliases to commit crimes under, if Stan had been speaking seriously about that… But unlike Stan, he didn't appear to have the capacity to rip him seam from seam and then chew on the remains.

"Besides, you're very Dippy-like," she pointed out, completely ignoring his previous statement. "I'm surprised someone hasn't tried you with chips, especially when all those old ladies watched you do the Lamby-Lamby dance."

"You swore you wouldn't bring that up again!"

"You didn't make me pinky swear!"

"Just… don't mention it to anybody, okay?" Dipper begged, a shade of red creeping onto his face. The Lamby-Lamby dance was so very _embarrassing_ and the less people knew of it, the better.

"Only if you agree my idea was better than camping out in those nasty woods tonight."

He began to protest, "If you would've given it a chance, I'm sure we could've had a viable fortress—"

"We would have been freezing in a storm!"

Dipper swallowed a sigh, letting her have this. It was true they _did_ have shelter for the night and beyond, even if the other residents were questionable at best. "Your idea was better," he agreed sincerely, conceding, "but I want my jacket back."

"Fineee," Mabel shouldered the damp, muddied jacket off, and she tossed it to him.

Catching the garment and holding it out, he grimaced as he noticed the excessive grime coating the fabric, "What did you do? Go _scuba diving_ in the mud?" His pants were muddy near the bottoms, but nothing like this.

"You watched me jump around in the puddles! What did you expect?"

He didn't reply right away, feeling drained from the day's events and now this, he was ready to collapse. "We can deal with it tomorrow." He stripped down to an undershirt and boxers in preparation for sleep, flopping onto one of the beds with a groan as the movement disturbed his injury.

Relaxing, he seized the opportunity to truly take in the bedroom Stan assigned to them. There were a few boxes laying around with miscellaneous, dusty and seemingly forgotten items in them, an array of books, and a large, framed painting of a sailboat hanging on the wall. The structural beams supported a pointed ceiling, and the only window—situated between his and Mabel's beds—was a triangular shape with an oval inside. Other than that, it was a standard room, almost too mundane to belong to a couple of criminals. It contained some furniture, shelves, nightstands, a lamp, a soft overhead light encased by a stained glass bowl, but the room still appeared to be generally untouched. More like a storage area, if Dipper had to guess.

Mabel sank into the other bed sometime after changing into a cleaner set of clothes, burrowing under the blankets. "Do you think we'll ever catch a car ride to the city?"

He hoped so, but he wasn't sure. The lack of success in his original plan was depressing, but he thought aloud, "We could always pay off our debt to Stan, and ask him for a ride." That was a stretch, but if the road was as severely underused as it seemed to be, their options were limited.

"You think he'd do that for us?" She asked.

"I wouldn't write it off so quickly," Dipper replied, turning his head to cast a slight smile in her direction. "He seemed to take a liking to that skull costume thing you were doing."

Mabel brightened up. "I can bring the skull with on the car trip! He'd love it!" She seemed to think for a moment. "...But would you even _want_ to get a ride with a potential criminal?"

Although Dipper wasn't overly fond of the idea, he wasn't going to reject the minimal help they might be able to get. He reminded her, "We broke into his house, Mabel. That makes us criminals, too." He preferred to think they had a good reason for doing so and weren't among the likes of common criminals, but really there was little difference in the end.

"Nah," she disagreed with an air of dismissiveness, grinning. "We're not criminals, we're opportunists."

"You do realize that sounds like something a criminal would say," he pointed out.

"Nooo, it's something an _opportunist_ would say!"

Dipper's smile widened, and he gave a soft laugh at her reply. Mabel always knew how to cheer him up, and he was thankful to have such a wonderful sister.

Mabel yawned. "We should sleep, _Dippy_."

"Stop that," he muttered, but wasn't truly annoyed by the nickname. Yawning as well, he shifted his weight to find a comfortable position on the mattress. "But we should. Stan did say we'd have a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

"Goodnight, Dipper."

"Sleep well, Mabel."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Thanks to all who have shown some love with faves, follows, and reviews — we're always thrilled to hear from you, so don't be shy. Enjoy the second chapter of merry misadventures!

* * *

It was six in the morning when Dipper first woke up, the unfamiliar sound of a goat bleating outside startling the young teen into consciousness. For a fleeting second, panic raced through him as he didn't immediately remember where he was or why he was opening his eyes to see a strange bedroom, but memories of last night mollified his increasing confusion as they came flooding back.

He allowed himself to collapse into the mattress once more, yet sleep was impossibly unobtainable with his heart still racing from the scare. Dipper's mind was whirring, rehashing the previous day's events, and ignoring his attempts to put aside his thoughts in favor of gaining another hour or two of rest. To make matters worse, his chest and forehead ached from his injuries, and he couldn't believe he'd been so stupid, clumsy enough to slam into a tree and flop through a window all in one evening.

Glancing to Mabel's sleeping form, he wondered how she was handling this. He wasn't too worried since she was the most resilient person he'd ever met, and he never understood how she found a way to smile at everything, spinning even the worst of outcomes into a positive statement. She'd seemed chipper, and honestly, he was a pinch jealous that she and Stan had instantly hit it off. Mabel's natural charisma was undeniable when she formed connections and new friendships wherever she went, and Dipper wished he could be as likeable to people. While his sister could hold a conversation with a rock and end it as best friends, his own socialization skills were lacking in comparison.

He abandoned that train of thought and closed his eyes in an attempt to sleep, but it wasn't long before he was forced to come to terms with his inability to drift off again. Deciding he might as well do something productive rather than lie in bed all morning waiting for eight o'clock, the time he'd have to meet Stan, he rose to his feet to wince as he did so, reminded of how hard he'd fallen yesterday when his ribcage ached with soreness and protested against every movement. Hopefully, working for Stan wouldn't be too rigorous since just picking up a fresh set of clothing and getting to the door of the bedroom was enough of a challenge.

Luckily, he was able to find the bathroom after a few failed attempts and relished in the feeling of warm water pouring over his skin, clearing away the muddy remnants of their journey through the woods of Gravity Falls. Having access to a shower alone was enough to push him over the line of uncertainty and thoroughly convince him staying here was a better idea than making a shelter in the woods, and sleeping under a structurally-sound roof on an actual mattress wasn't bad either.

Curiosity pricked at him as he finished showering. Just how bad __were__ his injuries? One glance in the mirror at his chest illustrated why he felt such discomfort — there was a large bruise, surrounded by a couple smaller ones, all of them blue and purple and angry-looking. On his forehead, barely below his birthmark, was another discolored and swollen welt from when he'd collided with the tree.

He returned to the bedroom and was glad to see Mabel still snoozing, undisturbed. They'd had a draining day yesterday, and he hoped she was able to get plenty of rest — but regardless, he assumed she'd wake up as energetic as ever, probably ready to get started at their new job.

The nightstand clock showed that it was just past 6:30. Although Dipper took pride in his punctuality, getting there over an hour before eight would be overkill. So in the meantime, Dipper was content to snatch a red book from one of the boxes and sprawl out on his bed as he prepared to read for a while, eyebrows furrowing when he realized the title was __Why Am I Sweaty?__ His expression shifting into something of horrified disgust, and he was quick to toss it back into the box he'd found it. Dipper had already underwent puberty, and he didn't need or want to relieve his younger years in which puberty had made him even more of an awkward mess of a human.

Once more getting up to find a different novel from the box, he was careful to avoid grabbing the book of nightmare fuel. Fortune seemed to be on his side this time, but there was no title across the front of the new red book. When he opened it, there were no words. Even more perplexed, he flipped through it, all the pages turning up blank.

But that gave him an idea, and he grasped a stray pen from the nightstand, hand positioned over the opened book as he considered what to write about. Ever since he and Mabel had ran away from their parents in Piedmont in search of a better life (i.e. yesterday), their adventure had been a series of twists and turns and surprises, a toss up between good and bad — and he settled on that. That would be what he wrote about, he decided, and somehow using this as a journal seemed therapeutic. Calming, when everything they'd encountered thus far had exactly the opposite effect on him.

* * *

Taking Stan's instructions to heart, Dipper was downstairs and seated at the table with Mabel, who he eventually had to drag out of bed, in the kitchen seven minutes early, the clock on the wall reading 7:53 A.M. He looked around, wondering if he should feel unsettled by the sorry state the room was in. It obviously hadn't endured a proper cleaning in months since there were dirty pots and pans and dishes everywhere, stacked carelessly on the counters and stove top. If the intense amount of grime and old food didn't have him feeling disgusted already, the taxidermied wolf head tossed atop the refrigerator would've done the trick.

Stealing a glance back at the clock, he wrung his hands together, rocking back and forth in his seat. "Okay," he said, a small albeit anxious laugh escaping him, "it's five minutes until eight." There was no sign of Stan, but the clock ticked on.

"This is taking __forever__ ," whined Mabel as she leaned back in her chair, her feet plopping on the table. "When do we get to eat? I'm hungry!"

Nerves getting the best of him, Dipper mulled over the possibilities instead of replying to Mabel. "Do you think Stan meant __this__ table? What if he was referring to some other table?" The Mystery Shack had proven somewhat difficult to navigate because of its odd and confusing layout, but they'd managed to find their way through it without getting lost so far. They'd successfully located their new bedroom last night, Dipper had found the bathroom earlier this morning, and now they were in the kitchen. Besides, they knew where the living room and gift shop were from experience. Nevertheless, it was true to its name and boasted mysterious, puzzling architecture.

"What other table would it be?"

"This place is huge, Mabel! There are so many doors, rooms, and corridors… there could be a table anywhere. There's even one in the living room." While there were many rooms left unexplored, Dipper wasn't about to go barging into them uninvited. Stan could just as easily kick them out as he'd allowed them in, and snooping around his house seemed morally questionable.

Mabel gave him a blank look. "Dipper, when he gets down here he'll probably be just as hungry as I am. Didn't he even say we'd talk over breakfast? This __is__ the kitchen, isn't it?"

His sister had a point, and he nodded slowly. It was logical — if they were going to talk over breakfast, surely it would be in the kitchen even if the place was completely filthy, hardly resembling a kitchen anymore. His fingers were itching to tidy it up, but he didn't want to be rude. "But then where __is__ he? It's…" he stole a glimpse at the clock, "three minutes to eight! He said to be here at eight o'clock __sharp__ , remember?"

"Maybe all the muscle he has came to life and gobbled him up in his sleep," Mabel offered.

Although he otherwise may have chuckled, he really did not need to be reminded that Stan had more muscle than the both of them combined. Broad, sturdy shoulders, thickened biceps… Dipper was certain he could crush them with his bare hands if he desired. Shaking the thought away, he wasn't sure if what he said was in response to Mabel or his own worries. "That clearly would never happen."

"You say that now," she hummed, "but when he doesn't show up you'll see!"

That was a genuine concern: what if he didn't show up? What were they supposed to do? "I'm sure he's just… caught up in something," he offered lamely as he distracted himself with a new plan: if Stan didn't show, they were free to leave (probably) and could try hitching a ride at the main road again, though he wasn't looking forward to boring hours of standing there on the chance someone would be kind enough to help them. If it played out similarly to yesterday, they'd be left with defeat and no progress at the end of the day.

Mabel shuffled her feet on the table. "He might just be sleeping. Maybe getting some more 'z's has made him forget about us."

It was at least more realistic than the muscle-consuming-him theory, Dipper would give her credit for that. His eyes swept the room again, suppressing a shudder at the unkempt state and abundance of dirtied dishes. "I hope he doesn't expect us to actually eat anything he makes in here. This kitchen is a nightmare." He wasn't sure how Stan could make food in here with the clutter, let alone work up the courage to eat it.

"I like it! It gives the kitchen character." She removed her feet from the table, knocking a pile of dirty dishes and an empty can onto the floor in the process. Nothing shattered or broke, but the noise was atrocious.

He squawked, "You're making it worse!" Why Mabel had to have her feet on the table in the first place was lost on him because adding to the mess wasn't something a responsible house guest should do.

"No I'm not! I'm adding __character__ to it, Dipper. You should try."

"I don't want to give it __character__ ," he said, tone replicating Mabel's. "I want to clean it up." Or at the very least remove the trash, such as the wrappers and empty cans, and relocate the dirty dishes into the sink. "Anything food-related that's prepared in here," or any edible substance that entered the room, "will probably give us a host of diseases."

"You're such a clean freak."

It was true he liked his belongings to be orderly rather than strewn about everywhere, but he wouldn't go far enough to say he was a clean freak, implying not one thing could be out of place without driving him wild. That wasn't Dipper. The simple fact of the matter was that the line had to be drawn somewhere, and Stan's kitchen was more than disgusting. "I'm not a clean freak. I just don't want to be ingesting the goop he ate last month with today's breakfast!" He couldn't imagine Stan had many usable plates remaining, considering how many were in plain sight, coated with leftover food and laying forgotten. "Look, it won't be a big deal…" he started, rising to his feet and advancing toward the sink and making a face at its sorry state as well. "I'll wash a couple of these," or more likely all of them and everything else in the room if he had sufficient time to do that, "and maybe Stan won't mind." Or take offense. He'd fought off the urge for too long and was giving in to this kitchen's silent pleas to be rescued from its trashy state.

As he started the warm water and added what he hoped was soap, Dipper glanced over his shoulder to the clock and report, "Alright, it's now officially two minutes and ten seconds past eight o'clock." A nervous chuckle tumbled from him, but he began to work on the gross dishes, scrubbing them while an expression of disgust was gradually forming on his face at the sheer amount of grunge covering all of the kitchenware. Some of it was even molding, evidence they hadn't been washed in several days. Months, likely. He was comforted by the idea that if Stan didn't want him to clean the kitchen, he should have been here on time and this never would've happened.

Mabel shook her head at him as he moved more dishes toward the sink. "Dipper! What if some of the gross food goop comes to life and grabs you?"

"Jeez, Mabel, you're acting more ridiculous than normal. I think the fumes," the horrendous stench of rotting and burnt food, "in this room are getting to you." Mabel's warning was silliness, he told himself. Food goop, while thoroughly revolting and made him want to gag, wouldn't come to life and grab him, would it?

He could hear her laugh behind him. "The only thing getting to me about this room is the lack of breakfast. I wish he'd come already."

So did Dipper, but he had a new mission on his hands.

Snatching another set of dirty plates and silverware to dump into the sink, Dipper paused to thoroughly examine the remnants of the food and determined that no, this goop wasn't about to attack him.

Caught in the mindless motion of grabbing plates, pots, pans, and various utensils, then washing them, he was spacing out, oblivious to the clanking of Mabel kicking around cans—only halfway through his self-assigned task of cleaning the kitchen—when he heard the sound of a door. It snapped him from his daze, and he peered questioningly to Mabel, "Do you think that's Stan coming to talk to us?" It was now 8:16 so while not quite on time, he wasn't overly late either.

Her eyes were fixed on the entrance to the kitchen. "It'd better be!"

Following her line of sight, Dipper was surprised to see not Stan, but someone he didn't recognize come waltzing into the house like he owned the place, pausing in the foyer to call up the stairs, "Mr. Pines, I'm here! Soos reporting for duty!" He—Soos, maybe Zeus?—was tall and rather plump, pear-shaped. Dipper's attention was drawn to the faded olive-green shirt with a large question mark scrawled across the front, wondering if the design was tied to the Mystery Shack's branding.

A brown hat was perched on his head, and when he turned in their direction, Dipper could determine he wasn't much younger than Stan. He had big, kind eyes with a child-like innocence persisting in them, and a couple stray facial hairs clung to his tanned, fair skin.

Seemingly noticing the disturbance in his usual routine, a look of pure confusion washed over him as he stared at the twins. "You dudes aren't Mr. Pines."

"Nope! I'm Mabel, and this guy," she motioned to him with a grin, "is my brother Dipper!"

Dipper was equally baffled by what he'd just been a witness to, but given what he'd said, the casualness about him, and the word 'STAFF' plastered on his shirt, he inferred this was another employee of the Mystery Shack. "Hey man, uh… how did you get in here?" he asked because it seemed like he merely opened the door and strolled in as if it was nothing out of the ordinary, despite Stan's lack of presence. Sure, he'd announced he was here, but that was still barging in.

Dipper's inquiry appeared to stump the poor guy for several long seconds, but he smiled and let out a warm chuckle. "I guess you must be new around Gravity Falls," he said, eyes averting as he removed his hat to fiddle with it in his hands idly. "Nobody locks their doors here. It's just not something we do in this town, y'know?" Another short laugh.

The idea of leaving doors unlocked, especially at all times, without a second thought was a foreign concept to Dipper, and this new information underlined just how small this place had to be if everyone was unconcerned about intruders.

It also annoyed Dipper as he remembered last night, realizing that sneaking in through a window (or, in his case, falling through it) was completely unnecessary since they could've entered via the front door. It would have been a much less painful or noisy endeavor, and wouldn't have ended with sensitive blue and purple splotches on his body.

Interestingly, it could have left him and Mabel without jobs too since there'd be no debt to pay off to Stan.

"So wait…" Mabel began to speak. "You mean we can walk into anyone's house in Groovity Falls?"

"You got it, dude. Though I'm not sure I'd recommend it – some people wouldn't take very kindly to that!" That didn't sound reassuring to him, not that he planned on stepping into another stranger's house when one time was already too many, and embarking upon a breaking and entering streak didn't appeal to him.

"We are not doing that," Dipper said, aiming to leave no room for argument. They'd barely escaped a bat-beating a la Stan last night, and he figured that was one of the least painful things that could happen to them if they continued this habit of home invasion.

"Aw," was Mabel's noise of protest. "But what if they have cool things like the skull? We could dress up together!"

Soos shuffled with discomfort near the threshold, his eyes watching them as they bickered. He looked uncertain, debating between cutting into their squabble or moving on, but ultimately just stood there awkwardly.

"Aren't we a little… old for that?" He vividly recalled the conversation he'd had with Stan over age and maturity, and the last thing he needed was Stan still thinking he was a kid. He was a teenager.

"Not according to Stan! He thinks you're twelve!"

Exasperated, Dipper asked, "How would dressing up together help with that?"

"Don't be silly, dressing up __always__ helps! You'll never make him think better of you with how squeaky you get!"

"Oh dudes," Soos quietly chuckled, "if there was more angry yelling involved this would remind me of my parents before my dad left."

Well, that got uncomfortable exceedingly fast, and suddenly, washing the dirty plates was far more intriguing than it had been a moment ago. He guessed he and Mabel weren't the only ones who had parental… complications negatively affecting them.

Attempting to come up with a new conversation topic to forget __that__ ever happened and break out of the awkwardness that'd gripped the room, Dipper half-stated, half-questioned, "I'm guessing you work for Stan too." Having a shirt with 'STAFF' on the back heavily implied Soos (or was his name Zeus?) was an employee.

"Yup, sometimes I wish he was my dad. He sure takes care of me better than my real one did!"

"O-kay," he said slowly, not entirely sure what to do with that or why Soos thought it was appropriate to share. How long had they known this guy? A total of five minutes, and they were already divulging oddly personal desires? Besides, Stan couldn't have been more than five years older than him, unless Soos' physical appearance made him look older than he truly was. "But he's… like, your age." Maybe he should just finish washing the dishes and let Mabel handle the situation since her interest seemed to be piqued by the daddy issues Soos kept bringing up.

"Do you ever wish he was a time traveler?" She asked with wide eyes.

"All the time, little female dude!"

"If I'm the little female dude, does that make Dipper a little man dude?"

"You betcha!"

Placing the last dish into the pile of cleaned ones, he commented, "This is getting weird, you two."

"You're weird!" Mabel responded before he could go on.

Dipper sighed, glancing around to see if there was a handrag to dry himself on, but upon finding one, he realized just wiping his hands on his pants would be a lot more sanitary. "So, uh, ...Soos?" He hoped he was getting the guy's name right, or he feared further awkwardness would ensue. "Do you know where Stan is? He was supposed to be meeting us down here twenty-five minutes ago." The way Soos had let himself in suggested he was accustomed to Stan and the Shack, and perhaps he'd know where they could find him without tromping around the house haphazardly.

"Oh, he's probably in bed. Mr. Pines never gets up when he tells you to. It's rare to see him up before nine at all."

"That's where he's been this entire time?! Why did he tell us to be here at eight if he's not even awake?" he groaned in irritation, smacking a palm to his forehead but immediately retracting it with a series of "oww's" when a stab of pain reminded him of the bruise lingering there.

"I could have stayed in bed?!" Mabel scowled. While she exuded hyper-activity after getting up, dragging her out of bed was a constant challenge.

"It's just … how Mr. Pines is, y'know? I thought you'd already know this, since you're in here..." Soos gave him a concerned look as he saw Dipper's pained response. "You okay, little man dude?"

"I'm fine." Hoping to avoid having to supply an explanation, he didn't want to talk about how he'd dumbly walked into a __tree__ yesterday, so Dipper returned to the subject by stating, "Stan just told us we were going to be his new employees. That's basically all we know about him." They knew he lived here, owned a bat that he enjoyed threatening people with, and had a criminal history. Along with Stan's name and age, that was the extent of the information they'd been given.

"You don't know anything else about Mr. Pines, huh?" Soos softly chuckled. "Dudes, if I didn't know better I'd say Mr. Pines fished you out of the storm last night."

That was an accurate summary of events in a way, but Stan hadn't gone looking for them even if he had been generous enough to give them a job opportunity. "I guess you wouldn't be wrong." It was easier to go with Soos' version than delve into the details of what really transpired. Maybe the part about them breaking in could be kept hushed, a secret shared between him, Mabel, and Stan since he didn't want to paint the wrong image of him and Mabel to this Soos character. They were two teenagers in trouble, not criminals.

"We broke in!" Mabel excitedly said.

And there went that plan. Dipper scrambled to correct the error, laughing nervously, "...to the souvenir business, she means! We broke into that, nothing else." And definitely not Stan's house.

"Uh… okay, dudes!" Soos looked lost, an expression he seemed to wear quite often Dipper noted. "Can I interest you in a tour of the place? It doesn't sound like Mr. Pines showed you around much."

Mabel shot out of her chair, hunger forgotten. "I'd love a tour! When can we start?"

Dipper agreed with Mabel and nodded, knowing there wasn't a lot of point in staying here if Stan wasn't going to be joining them for a while. He had already done his best to wash the dishes and countertops, creating a noticeable difference in terms of the kitchen's overall cleanliness, leaving very little to do other than wait. It only made sense to take up Soos on his tour offer.

A friendly smile on his face, Soos led the two out of the kitchen. "Alright dudes, we'll be going through the main parts of the Shack that you'll be working in as the new hires. Have you seen the museum or gift shop yet?"

Dipper tried to recall which room they'd been in yesterday and figured it had to have been the gift shop. Once Stan had flicked on the lights, he remembered seeing an array of gimmicky items lining the shelves, clothing racks and hats, and other gift shop-esque stuff, all with small tags attached to indicate the price. At the time, it'd looked creepy in the dark, but it wasn't as intimidating with the lights on. "We've been in the gift shop," he told Soos. "There's a museum?" He was left to wonder what kind of house this was with its strange architecture, a gift shop, an area hidden by a soda vending machine, and apparently a museum.

"I scared Dipper in there!"

"I was __startled__ , not scared."

"You almost peed yourself, Dipper!"

Soos gently coughed. "We do have a museum! The Mystery Shack is full of unexplainable oddities found all across the world, and the money that tourists that spend in here keep it running. To get to it, we're going to have to go through the gift shop anyway! I dunno what Mr. Pines has planned for you, but Wendy is our cashier. You'll probably meet her later today!" As the group entered the gift shop, Soos motioned to the cash register. "You can usually find her sitting over there."

"Ooh, a new friend!" Mabel squealed. "I'm going to know everybody in Groovity Falls in no time!"

Walking behind Soos with Mabel by his side, Dipper peered around the gift shop and saw the remainder of the clutter he'd created last night by falling through the window. There was a display case tipped over and a shrunken head on the floor, shards of glass glittering in the sunlight that poured through the window and brightened the interior of the room. The dinosaur skull was missing, and Dipper recalled noticing it back in the living room next to the recliner.

Soos paused at the sight of the damaged display case, shaking his head lightly. "Mr. Pines must've been drinking last night. He gets a bit rowdy – I'm not surprised to see something busted. I'll clean that up after the tour's concluded." As he spoke, he saw the ajar window and moved to close it. "Huh, he must've opened it too. Mr. Pines is a respectable but .. weird man when he's had the bottle. Unlike my real dad."

"Heh," Dipper chuckled and averted his eyes in guilt, knowing it wasn't a drunken Stan but him that'd caused the mess, a hand running through his hair, "yeah… Alcohol can make people act in ways they otherwise wouldn't." Even if he knew that wasn't what'd happened during the night.

"Anyway, museum time!" He led them through the gift shop to another door. Stepping into the room, they were immediately greeted by a variety of exhibits.

From the elusive Sascrotch to the brute of a Six-pack O'Lope, they had displays to appease even the most skeptical of customers and enough souvenirs to drain the largest of bank accounts.

Dipper personally deemed most of the "creatures" to be fake-looking, but Soos reassured him that everybody, townsfolk and tourists alike, adored the curiosities the Mystery Shack could offer them, often returning for several tours. His claim was backed by Mabel's constant ooh-ing and aw-ing over the exhibits they viewed, and her wild, sometimes unrelated questions about them.

"How many cotton balls could we stuff into its mouth?"

"What a unique and misunderstood creature! Can I keep it in my room?"

"If me and this thing got into a fight, who would win?"

The most unnerving part of the tour was the wax museum, featuring a variety of historical figures — he didn't look forward to working around those at night since they looked too lifelike for him to feel comfortable near them. Like the jar of eyes in the gift shop and taxidermied (sometimes rearranged) animals mounted in the Shack, the wax crew seemed to be watching his every move as if there was a shred of sentience in them.

On the other hand, Mabel seemed to be enjoying the wax figures, as she struggled to take the axe from Lizzie Borden's hands. "Why won't it –!" She squealed as the axe came loose and she stumbled back, falling onto her butt.

"You okay female dude?" Soos glanced back at the fallen form of Mabel.

"I'm great!" She scrambled back to her feet, axe in hand. "This axe feels so heavy – is it real?"

Dipper spun to see what'd caused the ruckus and felt his heart leap into his throat at the sight of Mabel holding the wax weapon. "Mabel, you have to put that back!" It didn't matter whether or not it was real, she couldn't just take an axe from a wax figure that didn't even belong to her!

"I do what I want!" Mabel stuck her tongue out at him.

"Y'know, nothing says she can't take it. I dunno if it's real though, I don't mess with Mr. Pines' wax figures."

"And we shouldn't be messing with them either," he protested, sounding a bit whinier than he'd intended to. He wished Mabel would put it back before they caused more collective destruction between the two of them; to Stan, it would look like they were nothing but trouble, bringing chaos wherever they went.

"Why not?" Mabel asked. "It's not harming anything!"

"It's not ours!" The museum's displayed was owned by Stan, not them, and they were only his employees.

"It is now!" She raised the wax axe by the brown handle and began to swing it around, the silvery-steel blade swinging dangerously close to the rest of the wax figures.

"Do you __want__ to get us fired on our first day?"

"Stan can't afford to fire us, we're in debt!"

The threat Stan had made about calling the cops flickered in his memory, and he'd made it clear that was the other option if employment didn't pan out. But it didn't seem like he was getting anywhere with Mabel, so he could do nothing but hope Stan didn't find the offense to be dismissal-worthy. Giving in, Dipper folded, "Let's just get the rest of the tour done with."

Soos continued on without further ado, though by now there wasn't much left. The Thigh Clops' eye followed them as they passed the Grizzlycorn and Roostdeer, all the while Soos chatted about what it was like to work in the Mystery Shack and what sorts of jobs they might be doing while they were here. "Any questions, dudes?" Soos asked as they neared the end of the displays, the tour concluding where it began: in the gift shop.

Mabel's hand shot up to ask, "Why do some of the exhibits have obvious glue stains?"

"Mr. Pines sometimes has us throw stuff together to make completely new stuff. It keeps people happy with the Mystery Shack's oddities."

Dipper cocked his head. "Isn't that dishonest?" They were scamming tourists with these less-than-truthful creatures and exhibits, the majority composed of animals combined with other animal parts and glued-on fur. That wasn't even touching on the abundance of overpriced junk in the gift shop that Soos implied they were free to lie about if it would result in a sale.

"Look dudes, I just do what Mr. Pines tells me. You should too."

"I could do a much better glue job," boasted Mabel, holding her chin in her hand as she thoughtfully examined the "Fairy" display, the dried patches of glue glaringly obvious where the canine heads met the chicken body, while the axe rested in her grip.

"Maybe Mr. Pines will put you on glue duty?" Soos suggested, then his eyes shifted to the clock. "He should be getting up soon. We might want to head back to the kitchen and meet him there. There'll be Stancakes!"

"Stancakes," Dipper repeated flatly, making sure he'd heard that right. "He can actually cook in that kitchen?" On the brightside, it was now slightly more sanitary with the effort he'd put into tidying it up this morning.

"Sure dude," Soos said with an air of perplexity as they walked through the living room, toward the foyer and then into the kitchen. Carelessly, Mabel had dropped the axe onto the floor when they passed through gift shop. "Why wouldn't he be able to?"

Sitting down at the table, Dipper looked at the room, though it appeared significantly less disgusting than it had before. The plates were cleaned, stacked neatly in the sink as they awaited further sorting into cupboards and cabinets, and the food sludge was mostly wiped away to reveal freshly-scrubbed counters. "Think about it, this place was—" he stopped as he heard the thud of footsteps approaching, stairs creaking under the weight.

Stan's bulky form entered the kitchen, adorned by a stained wife beater and boxers. He scowled at the sight of a cleaner room and the done dishes. "What, did Sixer and his cocklicking assbuddy finally come out of their cave to clean?"

Bewildered and sincerely hoping he hadn't angered Stan, Dipper blinked before shaking his head. "No, not exactly — see, I just thought it'd be nice to do your dishes." Well, more accurately, he couldn't stand the thought of eating anywhere near the grossness that was previously known as Stan's kitchen. He choked down a gag as he remembered the scent of the rotting, goopy food.

"You tryna weasel your way out of paying off your debt to me again?" It was apparent he hadn't forgotten how difficult Dipper had been the night before, but his behavior hadn't been intentional. He had been stressed and afraid, and having a bat hovering over him threateningly hadn't helped sort his thoughts into coherency.

"What? No!" Dipper frowned, then protested, "I'm not! Mabel and I," he looked to his sister and back to Stan, "are more than ready to get to work. Soos already gave us a tour of the museum and gift shop while we were waiting for you." He didn't want Stan to think he was lazy or attempting to skirt paying off the debt when he'd merely wanted to enjoy breakfast in a decently clean kitchen.

"Just so you know, Stan," Mabel said with a grin, "I call gluing stuff together! It'll be the gluey-ist, most glittery-ist exhibits you'll ever see!"

Stan narrowed his eyes at Dipper and he gulped, shifting in his seat. Stan still intimidated him, and not just because he was a towering hunk of muscle that could snap his stick-like body in half. "I'm watchin' you, kid." To Mabel, he was kinder. "Go for it, sweetie." He moved from the doorway to head toward the cabinets. "Now who's hungry? I think it's Stancakes time!"

If Stan hadn't changed the subject, Dipper would be left wondering why he got borderline threatened, meanwhile Mabel got called sweetie. There seemed to be mild favoritism at work, but he was accustomed to it; everybody loved Mabel, she was just so irresistible in her enthusiasm. "So, what __are__ Stancakes?" He kept hearing about them, from Soos and now Stan, and he didn't know if they were any different from actual pancakes.

Soos answered, "They're Mr. Pines' special pancakes."

"Made with extra love!" Stan winked at them as he began to collect the ingredients, including a bowl and whisk, a bag of flour, eggs, milk, salt, and sugar. He threw the mix into a bowl and paused to light up a cigarette.

"Aren't you worried the cigarette will get stuff in the mix?" Mabel asked, and he faintly nodded to demonstrate a similar worry.

Stan shrugged dismissively, "Nah, if it does it'll put some hair on Dippy's chest and you can smother it in maple syrup, sweetie. I have some in the fridge. Probably."

While the possibility of eating ash from the cigarette was not appealing, Dipper stole a fleeting glance at Mabel with a glimmer of mischief in his gaze; if there was maple syrup, that opened the door for syrup-chugging contests between the two of them. If he was even allowed to have any, since that offer had seemingly only been for Mabel.

"If you need me," Soos added, "I'll be working on tidying up the mess in the gift shop. Just give a holler when breakfast is done, dudes!" With that, he departed from the room, his heavy footsteps growing distant as he headed down the hall.

The sizzling of pancake (or "Stancake") batter soon filled the air, Stan standing over the stove top with a spatula in one hand and his lit cigarette in the other. "So uh… Dippy? What's up with your name?" Stan asked, turning around to look at him. "Your parents hate you or somethin'?"

"It's Dipper." He'd mentioned that to Stan previously, but he didn't blame him for not remembering when Mabel called him Dippy in his presence, and Dipper was an unusual (nick)name to begin with. Electing to be careful when replying to the bit about their parents, he was afraid the runaway situation would be obvious if he admitted they probably did hate them. "It wasn't that. I have… a birthmark, okay?" An embarrassing one, but nevertheless remained the nickname's source.

Stan's eyebrow raised at this revelation. "A birthmark, eh? Show me," he paused, as if trying out the name, "Dipper."

Hesitance plagued him, accompanied by the fear of being made fun of, and he smiled nervously as he shook his head and tried to come up with an excuse not to show it, "I don't think that's—"

Mabel was quick to reach over and brush away the hair that covered the birthmark on his forehead, revealing it to Stan without a second of reluctance. "There you go!"

Almost instantly, Stan fell into a roar of laughter as Dipper's cheeks adopted a bright red hue. "The Big Dipper? Are you serious? We should put you on display in the museum!"

Pulling away from Mabel, Dipper buried his face in his hands and could feel the heat radiating from his skin. He wished he could disappear, hide from the world, or at least not have such an amusing mark on his forehead. "This is exactly why I didn't want you to see it." Everyone who saw the birthmark always had to laugh at him.

Stan turned back to his Stancakes to flip them, the cooked side taking on a charred coloring. "Because it's hilarious?"

Mabel cut in. "Even more so since he's such a __little Dipper__!"

He could hear both Stan and Mabel burst into another fit of laughter together over this revelation, and Dipper protested, "I'm not that little, guys." Just because he was shorter than them didn't make him __little__ , especially when Mabel had less than two inches on him. "I don't see why it matters."

"You're right, you're right," Stan said, a grin still on his face. "Your height is just a __small__ part of you!" He and Mabel were cracking up again, and Dipper folded his arms with a huff.

The Stancakes had finished cooking, and Stan proudly dished them up and brought the plates to the table. "Unfortunately, I have to cut this discussion __short__ so we can discuss your jobs." Needless to say, the Stancakes looked like something out of a nightmare with pieces of hair sticking out of the blackened flat cake. If any food goop was going to come to life and enact world domination, Dipper figured it'd be these monstrosities. They had a stench of cigarette smoke to them, and upon further investigation (via cutting a piece away with his fork), he discovered a chunk of Stan's cigarette inside.

That was a pretty plausible explanation for the sudden disappearance of his appetite. When he'd cleaned the kitchen, he hadn't considered Stan would actively work to make the food extra inedible. Mabel, conversely, didn't seem to mind and was already digging in to her Stancakes, despite having to spit out a piece of the cigarette filter as she chowed down.

While disappointed in the lack of maple syrup, he didn't think that would even come close to redeeming them.

"Dipper," Stan continued, "you'll be working on restocking the gift shop and cashiering if Wendy isn't around. I'd have you help on tours but… it's you." He wondered if Stan was pointing out his poor people skills. "Also, when you're cashiering, DO NOT give refunds. Those suckers might beg ya for one but once they fork over their cash, it's mine for good. Mabel, as per your request you get to glue things together and you'll be helping me on tours. You both are responsible for making food for everyone, including Soos. He hangs around a lot, comes in early often, sticks around 'til late..." Stan shrugged. "Yeah, the guy's sad like that. Doesn't have a lot going for him, y'know? If you got complaints or questions, you can take 'em up with the outside trash can."

"No questions or complaints here, captain!" Mabel said, giving him a mock salute, and Dipper merely nodded.

"Now, we have to talk about something else since you'll be living here. You met my brother Ford last night. STAY AWAY FROM HIM! He's a no-good traitor to the Mystery Shack and you have no reason to interact with him. Also, there's another geek around here, Nerdleford – if you see him, ignore him too. And stay out of the basement!"

Ever-curious, Dipper's expression changed to one of contemplation and uncertainty at the warning. "Okay, but why?" Ford hadn't seemed terrible, and he wasn't sure why steering clear from him was so important to Stan.

"I told you, if you have questions take it up with the trash outside."

Humming softly, Mabel declared: "I sense unresolved conflict! Might I suggest hugging it out?"

"No."

Dipper found the request suspicious, but pushing for answers didn't seem to be getting them anywhere. Before he could speak again, there was a thunderous and metallic __BOOM!__ resounding from the lower level of the Mystery Shack, and it rattled the whole frame of the building, then the vibrations slowly tapered off. Worried, he looked to Stan, brown eyes searching — for an explanation, for guidance on how he should be responding to an incredibly loud noise like that.

Stan's fist angrily came down on the table, the dishes clinking from the impact while Dipper flinched, startled by the act of aggression. "See, this is exactly why I don't want you going down there! There's a nerd infestation and I need to get it exterminated before it tears this foundation apart!"

"What's even going __on__ down there?" Dipper asked, unable to fathom what could make such a ruckus, nerdy or not. And he thought __he'd__ been loud last night when he'd broken the display case.

All he could do was grunt. "Hell if I know. I'm not in the Nerd Alliance."

"If you hate it so much, why do you let them stay here? It's your house, isn't it?" Nothing Stan had mentioned up to this point suggested he approved of what was occurring downstairs, leaving Dipper to wonder why he allowed it to continue since he had the power to end it whenever he wished.

Stan hesitated, as if debating between whether he should answer or ignore the question. "You wouldn't understand, kid… I almost lost him once. I'm not losing him again. Now get to work! There are shelves to be stocked and our first tour group will be here soon! Dumbass tourists don't rip themselves off!"


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** There's a splash of Dipper/Wendy in this chapter, but we promise this is a BillDip fic and Dipper's crush on Wendy is short-lived. Not to mention painfully one-sided.

* * *

That was an obvious sign the conversation and breakfast had come to a close. Mabel and Stan headed for the museum to escort tour groups and show off their various attractions. Dipper manned the gift shop, lingering near the cash register since Stan said he was on register duty if Wendy wasn't here.

And there was nobody else in the gift shop, aside from a couple guests wandering through it while eyeing up the merchandise. Much like Stan, it seemed Wendy didn't bother being on time either.

It was boring but easy work, ringing up the patrons whenever they were done shopping. Dipper couldn't wrap his head around why anyone would have the urge to buy this junk, even the practical items like clothing, considering the markup on them. No wonder Stan was doing well for himself since people were fooled by the museum's exhibits and stupid enough to drop a hefty couple of dollars on a Mystery Shack shirt. There were postcards, hats, small toys, and other souvenir knick-knacks lining the walls of the gift shop, but nothing appeared to be made of quality materials. Visual appeal of the items was lacking, but patrons would often write it off as _charming_ or _peculiar_. For example, the jar of eyeballs sitting only a foot or so away atop the check-out counter was making him shudder; although he imagined they were undoubtedly plastic, they looked like they were watching him.

The mess from the broken display case and shrunken head had disappeared, Soos apparently sticking to his word since it was replaced by a different rack of what appeared to be books and maps on the town's history. The shrunken head was back in its jar but had been relocated.

Eventually, the bell above the door rang and in stepped a lanky teenager, a relaxed smile on her lips and a lumberjack hat covering the top of her red hair. She wore a plaid shirt and jeans, and Dipper…

Well, Dipper tried to avoid staring. He didn't want to make the customer uncomfortable by gazing at her too long, even if she was incredibly attractive.

The way her long hair swayed slightly as she walked… her take-charge gait, her lips lazily curling upward toward her lidded eyes. It was too much.

As if her presence alone wasn't enough to make his palms sweat, his breath caught and he became light-headed when she started to actually— oh no, oh gosh, she was actually walking towards him. The realization made him freeze. Was she going to talk to him, or did she have a question about the Shack? Oh man, what was he supposed to say? What if he was an awkward, sweaty loser like he always seemed to be, and she ended up despising him for it? He willed himself to remain composed, she hadn't even started talking yet.

"Hey," the red-head greeted him, hopping up to sit on the counter while her legs dangled over the side, brown boots clicking against the wooden counter. She leaned in his direction, her weight resting on one hand. "Did Stan replace me already for being late? That's cool."

"H-hm?" Dipper sputtered like a lovestruck idiot, the words not computing for a moment before it clicked into place that she was an employee. "Oh! You're… you must be Wendy, right?" It seemed like his luck to have such an attractive coworker, and he didn't know how he was going to get any work done, but maybe his social awkwardness would take care of the problem by scaring her out of ever talking to him again.

She was distractingly pretty with her contagious grin and soft eyes. He could get lost in them for days, but Wendy's response startled him from his dreamy thoughts.

"In the flesh. I don't think I've seen you around. What's your name?"

He opened his mouth to speak but hesitated, no words coming out and panic flickering within him. That was a good question. What _was_ his name? He couldn't get his jumbled mess of thoughts to cooperate and was temporarily rendered unable to speak, throat working silently until at last he was able to find his voice. "It's Dipper, what's yours?" He mentally facepalmed. He wanted to fall over and curl into a ball and implode and _die_ , right here in the Mystery Shack gift shop. He knew her name, why had that slipped out?!

She was going to think he was some big idiot. And honestly, he was sure he was not just a big idiot but the biggest idiot in all of history.

Wendy burst into laughter, but he couldn't tell if it was over his mistake or the absurdity of his nickname. "Cute name!" Whichever it was, it didn't matter since she liked it, and he grinned.

Yep, still a big idiot, but it didn't matter anymore because _he had a cute name._

Although he was blushing madly over his faux pas, he was surprised by her reaction since it wasn't among the standard ones he received. Usually, people would ask about it or jump straight into making jokes, so this was a welcome change of pace. "Wait, you're not going to tease me?"

"Nah, sounds like you already get teased enough." Her tone was light. "Besides, it's nice. Unique."

"Really?" He brightened considerably at the compliment, still beaming from ear to ear. "I guess I just thought you'd make fun of it… Take Stan for example, I'm pretty sure he was laughing for five minutes straight this morning." It hadn't stopped at that, Stan had went into making fun of his height and birthmark too.

"Yeesh, don't sweat it, Stan makes fun of everybody. That's why we get him back by making fun of him when he's not around." She used her free hand to clap him on the shoulder in reassurance. "I dunno what he assigned you to other than cashiering, but I can take over now that I'm here."

"Oh, of course! Stan said that you could work the register, and I'll restock the shelves instead." Dipper shuffled to move out of her way, watching with awe (and trying not to drool) as she gracefully vaulted over the counter to claim her spot behind the cash register. Dumbly, he said, "You're really good at that."

"Thanks." Wendy brushed her hair out of her face before she reached under her till and pulled out an issue of _Indie Fuzz_.

Seeing Wendy had whipped out a magazine, Dipper took that as his cue to begin on his job — but wait, uh, what was that again?… Shelf restocking, he reminded himself and turned to grab the supplies, toe catching on the wax axe Mabel left on the floor. He tripped and fell forward, luckily managing to catch himself before he hit the ground. With how much he'd been stumbling around as of late, not falling on his face (especially in front of Wendy) was a miracle.

"Whoa, you okay over there?" Wendy glanced up from her magazine, having heard the commotion of his near-fall.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, everything is fine! I'm fine!" Dipper reassured her with a cheesy grin, dusting off his clothes. "Just.. restocking shelves, like Stan told me to!"

She gave a nod toward the wax axe that was on the ground near his feet. "What're you doing with the axe?"

He glanced down at the offending object and laughed a little, "It's kind of a long story. My sister, Mabel, she… stole it from one of Stan's wax figures in his museum this morning and dropped it here. …I guess that wasn't that long of a story." Now that he thought about it, he should probably return the axe to waxy Lizzie Borden.

"What was she going to do with it, give someone forty whacks?" More seriously, she added: "You know, you don't have to put it back. Stan won't notice."

"He won't?" From how he'd drilled them during the break in (and how upset he'd been over his wrecked display case), Dipper would have assumed he was overly-protective of his possessions but since Wendy had worked with him significantly longer than he had, she'd know him better. "I should return it anyway," he added, scratching the back of his neck as he tried to justify himself, "because it would be a bit of a letdown for tourists to see Lizzie Borden without her axe. They already have enough to be disappointed in," he was referring to the painfully fake displays, "they don't need something else."

Wendy laughed at that, and he felt a tiny confidence boost trickle through him. "He didn't even notice when Bill took Lincoln's hat several months back. He's seen it a million times since, literally every time he comes over, but Stan hasn't put it together."

Dipper didn't recognize the name and tilted his head to the side. "Bill?"

"Eh, he visits every now and then. You'll get a chance to meet him." Shrugging, she leaned back in the chair and kicked her legs up onto the counter, the lazy smile returning. "Do what you want with the axe, but I've got a magazine to get back to."

* * *

The Mystery Shack had hosted a seemingly endless stream of guests, and minutes flew by like seconds since he was busy keeping up with the influx of tourists wanting this or that item, trying to get merchandise in a different color, asking if they had other variations in the back. Dipper had done his best to ensure the gift shop remained stocked and presentable, but avoided the desperate horde of customers eager to purchase knick-knacks for their loved ones. Hours later, it was still amazing to Dipper how easily they fell victim to such obviously cheaply-produced, worthless items.

Whenever possible, he'd tried to strike up conversations with Wendy but had been careful to not do it too often at the risk of being annoying. While she was never rude or dismissive, she seemed to prefer the magazine over chatting during the times customers weren't bothering her or checking out items.

Wendy had rose from her station behind the cash register and flipped the sign to 'CLOSED'. Upon seeing Dipper's confusion by this bold move, she'd laughed and said they had an hour to get lunch — Stan was a stickler for keeping his employees busy, but he wasn't the type to unfairly overwork his employees. To Dipper's disappointment, she didn't stick around to eat, however; her friends pulled up in a rusted van, and then she was gone with a promise that she'd be back before they needed to reopen. With a roar of the engine, the group of older teenagers drove off again, hollering and chanting amongst themselves.

Dipper headed to the kitchen and saw Mabel already seated at the table, a transistor radio in her hands that she was toying with idly while all it produced was sounds of static. "Hey bro-bro!" she greeted when he walked in, glancing up at him. "What're we having for lunch? I didn't see much in the fridge other than eggs and milk, but it looked like Mom's clam chowder!"

Making a face at the description, he was reminded of how glad he was that he'd passed on this morning's round of Stancakes.

"Are we allowed to just take Stan's food like that?" He knew they were living here while they paid off their debt by working for Stan, but taking his food seemed like overstepping the boundary. They could grab the emergency food they'd packed in their backpacks, but maybe they should save that for when Stan told them their debt had been paid off since there'd no longer be a reason to stay.

"Who cares?"

Dipper guessed that was one way to approach it. Recalling this morning's meal, he supposed Stan had fed them (and Soos) using his own groceries… so surely he wouldn't mind, right? "I'll have a look," he said as he flipped through cupboards and the refrigerator, mentally taking stock of what he saw in hopes a meal idea would come to him.

Mabel hopped out of her chair to join him by the refrigerator, reaching to pull out the carton of milk and pushing it under Dipper's nose. "Smell this!"

"Gross, Mabel!" he exclaimed before even getting a whiff of it, cringing as the scent actually hit him and made his stomach churn uneasily. It was fouler than anything he'd smelled before in his life, like the milk had done nothing but sit in this refrigerator for the past eight months untouched.

At this rate, he was going to lose his appetite again.

"How are we supposed to be the ones cooking meals if he doesn't have anything to make them with?" Dipper wondered aloud as he thought about how Stan said they were responsible for whipping up food for the household, but was thoroughly stumped by the lack of groceries.

Peering in the refrigerator, he noticed a block of cheese stashed behind the eggs and snatched it for examination. "This looks like it might be okay," he spoke unsurely. "We can just cut around the bad parts." But what they would be doing with it, he didn't know. It was a start.

"Ooh, how bold! I never thought you'd be the one to eat cheese that had mold on it."

It wasn't that he was eager to consume half-molded food, and a more appropriate statement would be that he was settling for this. "Look around! There's nothing else _to_ eat in here." He didn't understand how Stan could stay alive on this minimal amount of food if this was how the kitchen was usually stocked. Did he always eat out somewhere?

Mabel moved away from him to take another look into the cabinets. "Maybe he has some bread around? We can make sandwiches!" She beamed when she found a half-loaf of bread stashed away in the back of a cupboard.

Dipper brightened at her discovery. "That's great! Now that we have bread and cheese…" he trailed off in thought, running through their options. Sandwiches were alright, but even better would be… "I think we have enough to make grilled cheese." Grabbing a pan and the ingredients, he focused on the prep work, meticulously slicing the cheese to ensure none of the molded bits ended up in their lunch.

"Mmm," he had barely started working and Mabel was already drooling over their food. "I can't wait! It'll be so melty and _good_ …" Eager to lend a hand, she began to take the salvaged slices of cheese and lined them on the pieces of bread.

It wasn't long before they were enjoying their meal. Mabel had chowed down as if there was no tomorrow, leaving hardly a scrap on her plate, while Dipper ate more slowly but was glad to have food appeasing his hunger after passing up the Stancakes.

As Dipper ate the last of his grilled cheese, Mabel was back to messing with the radio as she leaned back in her chair comfortably, feet returning their propped positions on the table.

"Where did you find that, anyway?" he inquired.

"I took it off a desk."

He arrived at the conclusion that his sister, in other words, had snatched it from someone's desk without bothering to ask and now was fiddling with the signal.

Excitedly, Mabel squealed as she found a working station among the static and let out a victorious, "Yes!" Messing with the other dial, the volume of the device turned up. Through occasional bursts of static, the familiar Simon & Garfunkel tune filled the small kitchen with music:

 _God bless you, please, Mrs. Robinson_

 _Heaven holds a place for those who pray_

 _Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey_

"Ohmygosh, I love this song!" Mabel's face instantly brightened, jumping in to passionately sing with the vocals. "Hide it in the hiding place where no one ever goes, put it in your pantry with your cupcakes.~" Her enthusiasm made Dipper smile, and he couldn't say he minded the song either. It'd come out a couple months ago and was played frequently on most stations after its initial success.

"What's this sound of joyous singing I hear? Who do I need to kill?" interrupted a gravelly voice, Stan appearing in the doorway of the kitchen. Unlike this morning, he was dressed nicely in a black suit with a white undershirt, black slacks, and was wearing a red fez. The eyepatch was unexpected, but suited him in this attire.

"Mabel got the radio working," Dipper explained.

Stan gave him a blank stare. "The radio..? Did you go into my office?" he turned to Mabel.

"Maybe!"

That solved the mystery of whose desk it was, he guessed. Trying to move on from that subject and redirect Stan's attention, Dipper offered, "We made grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch. Want some?" There were still a couple left on the plate since he and Mabel had misjudged their hunger and made too many extras, but it seemed like it would pan out if Stan was interested in taking them for himself.

Looking a little grumpy that Mabel went into his private room, Stan snatched a sandwich. "Sure, kiddo. Where'd you find the cheese, under the fridge?" He took a ravenous bite. "That's where I remember seeing it last."

While displeased Stan was sticking with the nickname 'kiddo' after several attempts to convince him they were teenagers, Dipper didn't protest it this time and shook his head. "Behind the spoiled milk in the refrigerator." Basically the sole item stored in there aside from the sad carton of eggs, though he didn't know why since it was long past the expiration date. Keeping it cold wasn't necessary anymore.

"There's nothing else to eat," Mabel whined. "We need to go shopping! Can we go soon? Please? I like shopping. Mom used to take me and let me stare at the pretty dresses … she also got me some makeup, something about how 'it was the only way I'd look pretty.' I'm getting low on it, though!" She continued to babble, "Dipper wouldn't let me bring most of it with, it wasn't _practical_ or whatever..." A gasp of realization, her eyes lighting with hope and making her hard to resist. "Do you think we could get more?"

"It _wasn't_ practical."

"Uh…" Stan visibly hesitated, briefly pausing his consumption of the sandwich. "Sure, sweetie. Whatever you want. If your ma said you need junk on your face to look pretty, I ain't gonna say no. Wish someone woulda told Carla that before I had to. "

Dipper was horrified by the exchange but relaxed when Mabel squealed in delight, and she made a lunge toward Stan to throw her arms around him in a hug. "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!"

With a look of discomfort, he patted her on the head. "Yup." Slowly, he pried Mabel off of him in favor of finishing the last couple bites of his food. "You kids got any hobbies?" Stan asked, Dipper taking that as a conversation starter or a way to get to know them better. Probably both.

It occurred to him that Stan hadn't asked why they were here, or more specifically what they'd been doing to end up here. He'd received the lame explanation that they were trying to get out of the rain, but beyond that, Stan had been kept in the dark. It was better that way for everyone involved given the circumstances, and perhaps he had enough sense not to ask prying questions.

"I like to sing!" Mabel said as she flopped back into her chair, beginning to list off her interests on her fingers. "And glitter, and ponies, and movies, and cute boys, and kittens, and did I ever tell you Dipper sneezes like a kitten?"

He smiled sheepishly at the last piece but responded to Stan with his own answer, "I like school a lot," minus the bullies, "and doing science experiments, reading, solving mysteries. Oh! I build model airplanes too, race slot cars, and... I've always wanted to learn how to surf." The musical trend was surf rock in California (and perhaps amongst teens throughout the country), so naturally Dipper was interested in taking up the sport himself — the problem being that he wasn't at all the sporty type, and was far too nervous to try.

"You sound like you'd be fun at a party," Stan dryly told him. "A twig like you wouldn't last long on a surfboard. The waves would carry you away to Antarctica."

His eyebrows furrowed together in thought. "Wouldn't Hawaii or.. Japan be more likely?"

"I'm not a brainiac, kid. I don't know. Anyway, you raced slot cars? I never figured you for the vehicle type. Thought you were more geeky than that."

"He is more geeky than that," Mabel agreed. "He sometimes made kissy faces with the cars when his friends weren't around."

"...Okay." Stan didn't seem to know what to do with that, the two ignoring Dipper's embarrassed protests and claims that never happened.

"We didn't do it professionally or anything like that, but my friends and I — we'd build tracks and then race the cars on them," Dipper spoke, words spilling as he remembered the fun times they'd had. "We thought that we'd do it for real, like go street racing, when we got old enough to have cars and drive." And the older they'd gotten, the more it seemed like a distant dream because while street racing was the socially "cool" activity to be engaged in, it was extremely dangerous. And illegal, for that matter, but loosely enforced when it happened in rural areas or on country roads. Dipper wasn't much of a risk taker, so he'd accepted it as something that wouldn't be in his future.

Stan's eyes gleamed. "What if I told you that could be a reality?"

"What?" Dipper's eyebrows raised in surprise, bewilderment written across his face. "Seriously?"

"Yup!" Stan grinned. "Bill and I race every few weeks with Wendy and her crew. We just did one the other day, but if you want to tag along next time, you can."

Although he was momentarily stunned by the proposition, not expecting this turn of events, he snapped from the daze to nod dumbly. "I… I can't believe it! I'd love to!" Plus, there was that name again: Bill. Dipper couldn't help but feel his curiosity rise since everybody seemed to really like the guy.

"Can I come too?" Mabel asked. "I want to see how Dipper kisses a real vehicle, if it's anything like the mini ones."

"Uh, sure sweetie." Stan cleared his throat awkwardly. "Dipper, if you kiss my car I'll run you over with her. You can kiss Bill's though." He sloppily brushed the crumbs from around his mouth and grabbed the plate the remaining sandwiches were on.

"I don't do that, I swear!" Maybe when he'd been young, but definitely not anymore, and he didn't want Stan to get the wrong idea since he'd extended a racing offer to him that he could just as easily retract.

"Whatever you say." Stan waved a dismissive hand. "I'm gonna go try to feed my Nerdlebro and his Fickleford. If you need me, don't try to find me."

The squeak of a door opening brought attention to the foyer as he turned to leave, a drenched Soos stepping inside the Shack with a bag lunch in hand. "I was going to eat outside but dudes, it's like, totally downpouring out there again!"

"Shit!" Stan was half a step from barreling into Soos and losing his sandwiches. "Soos, what the fuck?"

"Oh!" Startled, Soos finally seemed to notice Stan. "Sorry, Mr. Pines, didn't see you there."

"No kidding," Stan grumped. "Must be all that talkin' while walkin', makes you fucking oblivious."

A faint blush colored Soos' cheeks, and he looked down in what came across as shame. "I was going to ask, if you don't mind.. uh, can we talk?"

"Can it wait? I was planning on going downstairs–" He sighed at the sight of Soos looking like a kicked puppy. "Okay, let's go into the living room and get on with it."

Once they were out of hearing range from Mabel and Dipper, secluded in the Mystery Shack's living room, Soos fidgeted as he seemingly tried to find the right words. "You know how you have those two new dudes working here at the Shack?" In his voice, Stan could identify the nervousness as well as distant guilt, like he felt bad about even bringing this up.

"Yeah? Whatta 'bout em?" This better not be him pulling a Ford. He was getting sick of people trying to tell him to kick the kids out.

"Are… are they replacing me?" Soos brought in a deep breath. "You can be straight with me, Mr. Pines. I can take it."

Huh. That was unexpected.

"Soos–"

He didn't give Stan a chance to reply before he went on, shuffling from foot to foot, "You could even pay me less, and.. I'll do double the work to keep up since there are two of them!"

On one hand, it was tempting to be honest and tell Soos he wasn't being replaced, nor had the thought ever crossed his mind when he brought on the kids as new hires. On the other hand, his more business-savvy hand that hid cards under the table when he gambled, he liked the idea of not paying Soos as much. "They were going to replace you," he decided, "but since you're okay with being paid less, I guess I can keep you on the payroll. You better not slack off though if you want to keep this job!"

His big eyes filled with relief and then glee at the agreement, nodding eagerly. "Thank you, Mr. Pines! You got it, I'll get back to work right now!" Soos started walking toward the gift shop, calling to him over his shoulder, "I'm lucky to have a boss like you!"

Stan laughed, "Aren't we all?" He was the best and he knew it. All the other bosses sucked lemons in comparison.

As Soos left, Stan took that as a sign he could _finally_ see Ford. Trailing behind Soos only because he needed to get to the Pitt Cola vending machine, he wasted no time in punching in the code when his employee wasn't looking and slipping inside. The grilled cheese undoubtedly lost some of its warmth, but Ford probably wouldn't care because he had to be used to leftovers by now.

As he descended the staircase, he could faintly hear the sound of Ford's voice hollering at Fidd— no, Kiddleford. That dirty broth- no, _boyfriend_ stealer. It seemed there might've been some trouble in paradise, given the yelling sessions seemed to be more common nowadays. It was always _"Where's my coffee?"_ and _"WHY DIDN'T YOU WRITE THAT DOWN, YOU IMBECILE! NOW WE HAVE TO START OVER!"_ Stan was convinced the relationship wouldn't last, and when it failed… he would swoop. He would be there for Ford.

The stairs melted away into an elevator, and after the pulley slowly made its way down the depths of the earth, he found himself looking into the laboratory. All of this seemed overly complicated for a room filled with control panels and large computers with flashing lights and shiny buttons. He couldn't understand why Ford went through all this for … what, a giant triangle with a circle in the middle of the room? Stan never had been fond of geometry.

It had a faint blue glow to it, but it was flickering dimly like it was emitting tiny bolts of blue electricity – a sign it wasn't fully functioning. When Bill broke it, he sure as hell did a good job of destroying the damn thing, whatever it was. Despite working on it over the course of several months, it still wasn't fixed.

He could hardly give a flying fuck about Ford's machine, though. He was here to give Ford food, not be exposed to the nerd radiation.

The basement's ambience seemed so uninviting to Stan with its metal parts strewn about, the large ceiling, diagrams and notes plastered on the wall, and the tangle of wires everywhere. Maybe that was why Ford acted distant and cold toward him — he spent too much time here where the surroundings definitely didn't promote familial warmth. The upstairs of the Shack with its log cabin ambience and rustic charm was thousands of times friendlier.

A few more seconds passed before his brother seemed to sense something was off among his gadgets and geek junk, and Ford turned around, bringing him completely into view. Stan's mood deflated as he could see the change in his expression: from intense curiosity to something flat and vaguely annoyed. "Can we help you, Stanley?" The icy words apparently grabbed the attention of Turtleford as well, leaving both to stare at him expectantly.

"I brought you food," Stan said as he beckoned to the plate of sandwiches in his hand. "The kids made it, and I figured you hadn't eaten today with all your nerdiness."

"The kids," Ford repeated, as if trying the phrase out for himself. "I'd believed you would have come to your senses by now and removed them from the household, but it appears I've overestimated you."

"I underestimated how much of a little bitch you'd be about me hiring new employees. They're none of your business, Ford. They work for me and as long as you're a _guest_ in my household, you have no say in their residency." He had a right to do what he wished with _his_ house, the _same_ house he _allowed_ Ford to stay in to conduct his research. Besides, Stan didn't see Ford paying any bills, and he was kind enough to not charge him rent, but he was tempted to start doing so after the way he'd treated him during his stay.

His stay as a… what was that key word again? Oh right, guest.

Sensing the tension in the air, Fiddleford tapped his fingers together as he said, "Stan, I reckon Ford here has a point 'bout them there kids, seein' as they... "

He received two simultaneous albeit very similar answers:

"Shut the hell up, Fiddleford. No one asked for your input."

"Kindly stay out of this. It doesn't concern you."

"You can shut the hell up too, Ford. All I wanted was to bring you some food. I didn't come here for your.. whatcha call it, incessant nagging."

Ford's expression twisted into one of anger, but Stan couldn't determine which part had set him off. "You've barged into my laboratory despite the many requests to leave me in peace while I'm working! Fiddleford and I are up to our glasses in work, and we don't have time for your pesky visits."

" _Your_ laboratory? This is _my_ house. _I_ have the right to go wherever the fuck I please. But fine, if you don't want food, I'll go."

"Fellers…" Biffleford tried again.

"The fact of the matter is that I simply don't have the time or the desire to place my work aside to indulge your ridiculousness, so consider yourself free to leave."

"Put a sock in it," Stan growled irritably to both of them. Why the hell did he bother trying to be a good brother? "And have your fucking food anyway. I was just tryna be nice." He made a point of tossing the food at a nearby computer, not caring to see if it hit or not.

The towering machine flickered more intensely for a couple seconds, drawing Fiddleford's attention away from the building argument to frantically snatch a notebook and began scrawling notes.

Meanwhile, Ford didn't seem to notice the change, his irritated gaze quickly turning into something guarded and resentful as he eyed him. "I _appreciate_ ," it sounded strained, insulting, "your meager attempt, but I know what tends to happen when you are around my experiments, so I'd like to again ask you to remove yourself from this basement."

His lukewarm, obviously forced sentiment was grating. "Oh, _fuck you_ , Stanford!" Stan had never felt such a burning desire to beat the living shit out of his brother before now, and as his body bristled, he lunged forward to tackle Ford to the ground.

When Stan's body collided with Ford's, they fell roughly to the hard floor of the lab, and he heard a puff of air escape from Ford as a result of the impact. Ford squirmed for a second before shoving back against his shoulders, using a knee to knock him off balance.

In the background, he could hear Fiddleford's noise of surprise as he realized a brawl had broken out, but Stan paid no attention to it. He fell back, a low growl in his throat as he swiped to grab Ford's gray dress shirt, catching himself before he went down completely. He yanked himself up, his fisted hand coming down on Ford's stupid face.

The blow was satisfying, and he could see the expression of pain that crossed his brother. Take that, fucker. It was hard for him to feel concern after all the hell Ford had given him over the years.

He could see the rage forming on Ford's features as the shock of being hit wore off, and Stan grunted when his brother twisted to elbow him in the ribcage, breaking away.

It stung, but he paid the wound no heed. "Get over here you piece of shit!" Stan snarled as he pursued Ford into the control room, still ignoring Fiddleford's pleas to stop fighting, that it was too dangerous to do around the active portal.

He wanted to tell Fiddleford to shut up about that fucking damn portal, for all he cared Ford and his lousy boyfriend could fall through it.

Once more, Stan attempted to lunge for Ford, intending on tackling him to the ground to get in a couple more decent blows to that asshole's face. It was easier to fuck him up when he wasn't running around, and Stan would have succeeded in his plan, if not for Ford turning on him in time to reflexively counterattack, kicking him away.

Stan doubled over, the wind knocked from his lungs. Off balance, he fell into the side of one of the control panels, where exposed wiring glowed orange with heat. Stan hissed in pain, recoiling away instantly as the metal burned away the fabric of his shirt to sear his skin. "Shit!"

Ford's eyes widened, all traces of animosity forgotten. "Oh my gosh, Stan!" he gasped, worried and already advancing toward him. "Are you alr—?"

Unlike his brother, Stan was still fuming with anger. Hurt in more than one way, he wasn't ready for Ford's concern, and the second his brother was within reach, Stan nailed him in the fucking face with a well-aimed blow.

Ford staggered backwards with a betrayed squeal of pain, a six-fingered hand lightly brushing over where Stan's fist had connected with the skin to assess the damage.

"Fucker," Stan breathed as he struggled back to his feet. His shoulder burned like fire, and he was certain he'd be dealing with a blister. Fucking fantastic.

"Since you fellers are busy fightin' and hollerin' at one another like a snake in a badger's den..." Fiddleford's nervous voice rang out, followed by a sound of winding down, gears halting. Silence replaced the whirring noise of the machines, indicating he'd shut everything down in light of their physical altercation.

"Stanley, go upstairs," Ford muttered through a sigh, looking worn. He began to walk away from him, returning to Fiddleford and the huge triangle-circle thing.

Contempt flooded him at the blatant dismissal, the lack of reaction. So now Ford was going to act all high and mighty, like he was the mature one here, refusing to fight like the stupid, _goddamn hippie_ that he was.

"Oh, go fuck yourself _Fordsy_!" That seemed to make his brother pause, his body visibly tensing.

" _Don't_ call me that, Stanley." There was a gritty edge to the words said through his teeth, but Stan couldn't give a fuck. He knew Ford hated the nickname Bill had given him, that was the _point_. This fight wasn't over, and Stan wasn't about to let him get away so easily. With Ford's back turned to him, Stan went into a run, bowling into his brother. The force of the impact sent them tumbling in a mess of limbs into the triangular machine, the added weight of both their bodies crashing through one of the portal's support beams.

The entire metal triangle began to tip over with a deafening creak and then a crash, and Stan watched through dazed, dark eyes as it collapsed entirely onto the floor. The dust settled to reveal most of it was a pile of bent metal, broken pieces, and screws rather than the powerful machine it had been mere moments ago.

His brother appeared equally dumbfounded until he realized what was happening. "Wh- ...what have you _done_?" It was hardly more than a shocked whisper as they lay amongst the wreckage, the bits of the portal scattered around the floor surrounding them.

Ford weaseled his way out from under Stanley to pull himself up, pointing angrily to the exit with hatred replacing his shock as he boomed, "Get the hell out of my laboratory!"

"Fine," Stan snapped. "But you can go fuck yourself and this stupid laboratory. I don't want to see you again Stanford. Or you, Dickleford." Cursing as he rose to his feet once more, Stan slowly made his way to the elevator, only stopping when he neared the shattered plate and discarded sandwiches. In a fit of irrational anger, he stomped them into a crumbly mess on the floor. "Fuck these sandwiches, too!" If it weren't for them being fucking made, none of this would've happened. Probably.

The tussle had left his shoulder stinging even more, and one of the first things he planned on doing was trying to throw ice on it. He was done with Stanford. Forget making him pay rent, he was tempted to tell his brother to pack up and go find another basement to infest.

* * *

Collapsed in his armchair, Stan blankly stared at the television, drowning out the noise of _Gilligan's Island_ as he sat in thought. His shoulder had continued to burn like a motherfucker throughout the day, and his muscles were sore from the alteration. Attempting to continue tours had been difficult – every little movement with his arm made him want to cut it off, and he hadn't been left in a cordial mood once he left the basement. Although he did his best to put on a show for the guests, he was glad to have Mabel around, as she'd been more than ecstatic to take over most of the touring work for the day. Dipper had also been useful, keeping up with the stocking and even taking over the cashiering when Wendy booked it for the night.

Dinner had gone decently, though Stanfuck and his fuck-friend hadn't come upstairs for it, not that he'd expected them to bother with inherently polite things to do such as attending meals. The kids had made more sandwiches due to the lack of food in the house, and they'd talked over dinner.

"I saw you come up from the basement!" Stan remembered Mabel telling him. "Did you and Ford hug it out?"

"Well, I did have my hands wrapped around him at one point." Not to hug it out, but because he'd really wanted to strangle his jackass of a brother. Still, Mabel had accepted that without further questions.

After they'd gone to bed he found himself missing their company. In a way, Dipper almost reminded him of the old Ford, before he went off to college and became a little bitch.

Stan grimaced slightly as he moved his shoulder, pain shooting through his back. When he had come upstairs earlier, he'd tried to throw ice on it and bandage it, but his attempts without help had been futile. Wearing clothes had proven to be a terrible idea, given the fabric rubbed against the growing blister had caused it to rupture. To try to remedy that, he stripped to only his wife-beater, but it didn't do anything to reduce the pain of every small movement. The torn skin was weeping clear liquid, so he sincerely hoped the rapidly drying goo wouldn't get shit stuck in the open wound.

There was that damn sound of the vending machine moving again. Lucky him. Stan could only hope Ford was going to bed and wouldn't come into the living room to pester him because he'd seen enough of his brother's stupid face today. He wouldn't hesitate to give it another good old fashioned pounding if the opportunity arose.

He could faintly make out movement in the corner of his eye near the door frame that led to the gift shop, but he was too stubborn to give him the time of day, knowing who was standing there.

Ford cleared his throat, something he figured was an attempt to grab his attention, defiantly deciding Sixer was going to have to try better than that.

Stan continued to ignore him in favor of watching Gilligan try to climb a coconut tree with minimal success, the recorded laugh track playing in the background.

"Stanley."

"Assford."

"Don't be so childish."

That hit a nerve. " _I'm_ childish?" he demanded, still refusing to even peek at Ford. He wouldn't allow him the satisfaction. "You're the one who won't let anything go. I can't even try to visit you and give you food without you being so... fucking snobbish."

Ford moved further into the living room, taking a couple steps before stopping as if unsure if he should come any closer. He could see that his hands were folded behind his back, a common pose for him, and Ford was holding something but Stan wasn't curious enough about it to break his gaze away from the black-and-white pictures of the television. "I can respectfully acknowledge why you were upset, but realize that my experiments require extensive concentration, and I don't have the luxury of dropping everything to take time to eat." A pause. "However, I'm willing to extend forgiveness to you over today's events."

"Right," Stan responded sarcastically. "You'll 'forgive me.'" It was complete with air quotes, but Stan winced in pain as the movement agitated his newly-acquired burn. "Then tomorrow you'll throw it in my face like you do about _everything_ I've done that's 'wronged' you." That time, he didn't bother with the quotes after having learned his lesson, but it was hard to trust his brother after years of his inability to forgive over one stupid mistake that he deeply regretted.

He started to shuffle closer again. "I'm a man of my word," he started, "but I understand why you may be skeptical."

"So far you haven't given me a reason to trust your word." Stan grumbled.

"To illustrate my forgiveness over your…" he trailed off, but corrected himself, "over what occurred in the laboratory today, I've brought a salve. It's of my own invention, designed to help with the pain and healing process."

"What, did you have Jackoff-ford jizz in it or something?" Stan spared him a glance, but it lingered for barely more than a couple seconds.

Ford made a face, "That's… highly unsanitary. Absolutely not."

Stan cracked a smile. When his brother wasn't being unbearable, his cluelessness was sometimes cute. "Oh, so _you_ did. Hot."

"Putting aside the unwavering integrity of my inventions, I… I don't entertain such primal, basic urges as _other people_ do." The words were clearly directed at Stan.

Laughing, Stan said: "Please, I remember when you were begging for my cock to be inside of you. Don't try to act innocent, Ford."

Obviously trying to ignore what'd been said to him, Ford's eyes shifted and he reverted the subject, "Would you like the salve or not? I encourage you to at least try it."

A pause, the only noise in the room the sound of the television in the background. There was still some anger toward his brother over earlier, but he wanted to do whatever he could to ease the pain. The sooner it was healed up, the better. "...Fine. But I'm applying it myself." He didn't want Ford to touch him since the fucker didn't deserve that privilege.

"Certainly," he replied with raised eyebrows, appearing to be briefly surprised by his wish to apply it himself. Ford unclasped his hands, holding out the tin of salve to Stan like it was some sort of peace offering.

Stan grabbed the tin, careful to avoid Ford's hands as he took it from his brother. He peeled open the top and scooped some of the ointment up with his fingers before he attempted to twist his arm over his back. The burn was just out of reach, and stretching the muscle of his back only resulted in more pain. Ford, that asshole, seemed to be fighting to keep a straight face, crossed between concern and amusement, while he watched him twist and turn to reach the wound.

The sudden laugh track from the television couldn't have happened at a worse time.

Scowling at his brother, Stan stopped his movements in favor of flicking the goop at him, which Ford frowned at. "If you think it's so funny, Stanford, you do it. Go ahead and rub your hands all over my popped blister."

"Alright," was his even response as he took the tin, dipping his digits into the goopy liquid and positioning himself behind the armchair for better access. There was a long moment when nothing happened, no fingers spreading gross salve over his skin, and he wondered what was taking him.

About to impatiently yell at him to get on with it, Ford spoke before he had the opportunity. "Oh, Stanley," he heard Ford sigh behind him. "This— your burn is… bad." He tensed as he felt the coldness connect with the affected area, feeling the pads of deft fingertips gently brushing over it.

He almost grimaced at the touch, but his body slowly relaxed beneath his fingers that were busy still smearing the lotion onto his burn. "Yeah, well," Stan muttered, "having skin get cooked by exposed wires then ruptured by fabric isn't a good time. Surprised it's not completely raw."

Hit by the sudden realization the last time Ford had helped him like this was when he was still boxing, Stan glanced back at his brother. It was years ago, when his muscles were stiff from the fighting and he was bloodied and bruised. They were still together. Did Ford remember? Did he care?

Likely not, he determined. Ford seemed … content with Cockleford for the time being, despite what Stan wanted to believe. He wanted Ford to look at him like he occasionally looked at the other male — a rarity, but it still happened from time to time and Stan _loathed_ him for it, for stealing his brother's attention like that. He desired his affection, his love, but deep down he knew there'd be no hope for rekindling that old flame as long as Ford was with Fiddleford and didn't let go of Stan's accident.

The thought hurt more than his burn.

Stepping back and placing the tin atop the small table in the corner of the room, Ford instructed, "Avoid disturbing it as much as possible, but it should heal at a much faster rate now. I imagine Soos or… the kids," there was a hint of resignation in his tone, "would be more than happy to help you reapply, if necessary."

"Right," Stan's voice was quiet. "Thanks, Ford." He didn't watch the touch of Soos, or the kids, though he knew Soos would be eager to assist him. He just wanted Ford. He wanted Ford to touch him like he meant it, like he actually cared instead of doing it out of misplaced obligation as he had been a minute ago.

"Of course," the reply was dismissive, but not in a cruel way. "I suppose I should head back to the laboratory. The portal's state is… a sorry one, at best." To Stan's surprise, it didn't contain an inflection of blame aimed at him. Maybe Ford actually had meant it when he said he was forgiven.

Yeah, sure.

"I guess I'll see you later, then," he responded. "Whenever you decide to poke your head out of that nerdhole of yours." Truthfully, he didn't think he would see Ford until well into tomorrow.

Ford peered at the clock, then to Stan. "The night is still young. There are plenty of hours left to be productive before I'll have to return upstairs to rest."

And that was the reason why. Most of Ford's life was spent in the basement, and his working hours were a mess. Stan didn't know when he found time to sleep with how much of a workaholic he seemed to be, obsessing over his wild inventions and theories for the better part of the day and night. He didn't know when to give it a break, and perhaps would've reminded Stan of their father if not for his passion for the work.

Stan returned his attention to the television, not that he was genuinely invested in what was happening. "You go do that, Poindexter."

Seemingly out of things to say, Ford stood there in the middle of the living room for a couple more seconds before turning around to disappear into the gift shop, his exit solidified by the vending machine moving back into place.

After watching Ford leave, Stan sighed at the sound of the laugh track playing, feeling like it was laughing at him rather than some stunt of Gilligan's. His attempts at talking to Ford had been pathetic at best and he knew it, but there wasn't much he could do about that. At least Ford had apparently forgiven him for breaking the dumb machine, even though Stan wasn't completely over it.

It was more than a bunch of broken bits laying in a chaotic heap. It was the wreckage, the utter destruction, of their relationship, and how they'd drifted apart after Ford left for college many years ago. It almost didn't feel like he had him back since he spent his life in the basement, wasting his affection on his dopey assistant.

No, the problem was much more complicated because while Ford could always fix the portal, no amount of work could guarantee a repaired relationship between him and his brother.

* * *

 **A/N:** Hold onto your seats because things are about to start kicking off & as always, much thanks to those who have been faving, following, and/or reviewing.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Longer update with some one-sided Wendy/Dipper again. Also, brief Fiddauthor and Mabel/Gideon scenes.

* * *

"Rise and shine, kids!"

Groggy, Dipper sat up to rub the sleep from his eyes and stretch, gradually becoming more aware of his surroundings. The first thing he noticed was a weight sliding from his chest into his lap, and he peered down only to see the familiar red-covered book resting atop his thighs, opened haphazardly with a pen caught between the pages. He must've fallen asleep while journaling — again. That'd make it the third time this week.

Bright orange rays of light from the rising sun streamed through the window, shining on the wooden paneling of his and Mabel's room. Had they overslept? It was the only plausible reason that came to mind as he internally questioned why Stan would be waking them, but it made no sense because they were usually awake hours before Stan bothered rolling out of bed. Turning to look at the nightstand clock, he groaned loudly enough for Stan to hear him through the door, "Stan! It's six in the morning!" And it was Sunday, no less. It seemed insane to expect him and Mabel to jump into working so early on what was intended to be a day of rest.

"Yeah, and? Come on, we got places to be! Today's a day for worship and coming together as a community!"

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Mabel beginning to stir from the commotion, looking confused, tired, and like she would rather be snoozing.

How Stan explained it suggested they were… "You're making us go to _church_?" Dipper was crossed between irritated and horrified at the possibility since their family never had been too religious, and he'd been told bone-chilling stories of cult-like small towns worshipping insane deities in over-the-top ways. He hoped that wasn't what he'd gotten himself into, but in retrospect, perhaps he should have asked sooner if Gravity Falls was home of a backwoods cult.

"Hell no, we're going to the market! Just the thought of going to a church makes my skin burn. Now get up and get the glue!"

"Glue?" That seemed to convince Mabel to hop right out of bed, fully awake. "I'm on it, Stan!"

"That's my girl! Both of you, downstairs in five. If you're not there willingly, I'll come back up and drag you down by your feet!"

Dipper cringed at the threat, wondering how many splinters the human body could even handle. Not wanting to find out, he slipped out of bed and began getting dressed by pulling a plain shirt over his head, followed by a vest. "I wonder what we're going to do with the glue…" he murmured in thought, partially to himself as he determined it had to be something important if it apparently couldn't wait for a more reasonable hour (or day of the week) to come along.

Displaying energy levels Dipper didn't know were possible for this time of morning, Mabel was already almost dressed, sporting her purple _Meow Wow!_ sweater. "Whatever it is, it'll be fun!"

"Fun like the glitter incident?" he asked, rolling his eyes. "I'm still getting it out of my clothes." It'd been several days since Mabel had spilled glitter on him, effectively turning him into human tinsel considering it didn't wash out of fabric easily. Wendy had been affectionately teasing him with the nickname Twinkletoes whenever they worked together in the gift shop.

"And it makes you look fabulous!"

After they arrived downstairs, they found Stan sitting at the table in the living room. Mabel bounded over to him to claim a chair, proudly announcing, "I've got glue!" while Dipper trailed behind and tried to figure out what was _on_ the table. It looked like heaps of useless garbage. There were misshapen chunks of wood in one pile, an assortment of paints, papers, stickers, glitter, a couple of their best-selling items from the gift shop, and a jar of googly-eyes. Other miscellaneous materials, such as cloths and metals, were bunched together.

"Glad to see you made it," Stan said with a grin. "Get comfortable, we'll be doing some crafts. The market opens in a few hours and we're going to be ready to rob these suckers blind. Mabel, I want you to make something out of these paper scraps. Something we can pass off as 'good'," he shrugged, "maybe something patriotic – I know the war's a popular subject these days, gets those dimwits all fired up and ready to spend money. Dipper, you'll be refurbishing some of our clothing items. Grab a marker and make it troopy."

Mabel squealed excitedly. "I'll add glitter to it!" And she immediately went to work, digging through the provided box of scraps to find something she could make it dazzle with.

Unlike his sister, he hesitated, feeling like this was among the more dishonest things Stan had requested they do but having little choice in the matter. They already lied on tours and in the gift shop to sell merchandise, he didn't know why they couldn't go a single day without scamming somebody.

"I like your spirit!" Stan complimented, patting Mabel on the head before his attention shifted to Dipper. "As for you, get the lead out and start workin'."

Despite the lingering uncertainty, Dipper grabbed a handful of hats and markers, scribbling the word "USA" on the top with a poorly-drawn American flag next to it. His artwork was abysmal as he held it out for examination, frowning slightly. "Like that?"

"Perfect. These suckers will buy anything that looks… somewhat American, and what's more American than lazy craftsmanship?"

Although that did nothing to boost his confidence in the junk they were going to be selling, Dipper continued working on more hats by adding a bit of sloppy American flair to them. "What is the, uh," he paused as he tried to recall what Stan called it earlier, "market? Does the town just get together to sell things on Sunday?" Because he'd never heard of it, he wasn't sure if he'd simply been raised sheltered, or if hosting weekly markets was an event exclusive to tiny towns like Gravity Falls. In Piedmont, marketplace shopping was unnecessary when they had stores to cater to their needs within a couple miles, but he figured this town was too small to house a wide variety of businesses.

Glancing at him, Stan paused in adding googly-eyes to the sadly-constructed wooden soldiers. "Everyone in town gathers their shit and sets it up around the ol' Nathaniel Northwest statue to show it off and sell it. They do it every Sunday instead of going to a church. Hell, I don't even think there're churches in this town."

Although he didn't know who Nathaniel Northwest was, it was interesting nonetheless since he'd never heard of any tradition like this one, but chalked it up to the fact that Gravity Falls was secluded and small. It was strange to host a social event, an assembly of the population, rather than one of religious nature on Sunday. "Is there anything good for sale, or is it all…" he looked down at the clothing that he was "improving" and Mabel's glitter-covered wads of paper. Their merchandise was a mess, and that was speaking volumes when he was accustomed to the poor quality of the gift shop items. Abandoning his earlier thought, he couldn't help but ask, "Are you sure people will pay money for this?"

"What, you think just because I'm having ya make trash, everyone has trash?" Stan shook his head at him. "Look, you'll have plenty of time to look around. You'll be scoping out the place, seeing what the other folks're selling." He laughed, "And kid, I promise they'll buy anything! I could spit on a wad of paper, have a dog chew it up, then shove it in a clogged septic tank and they'd still buy it for a buck or two."

"Lucky!" Mabel cut in, taking a break to shake Dipper's shoulder roughly as if she couldn't contain herself, causing the marker's ink to go every-which-way on the fabric. "You get to explore and see everyone's junk!" Dipper's cheeks colored slightly at the implication, but she went on before he had a chance to say anything. "What do I get to do, Stan?"

"You'll be selling things at the stand with me, sweetie."

Dipper stopped in his movements, discontented. "Wait, hold on," he started, "why don't I get to sell things at the stand?"

"Because it's you."

Offended, his eyebrows furrowed and he adopted an expression of defiance. "What does that mean? I can sell things! You're always putting me on gift shop duty." Granted, Wendy was there with him and interacted with the customers more often than he did, but it was just logical that he should be more than qualified to assist in running the marketplace stand as well.

"I think he means you're too awkward," Mabel offered as an explanation, looking up from her mess of glue and glitter.

Stan sighed. "Okay kid, if you want to try to sell something if you want, but when you fail you'll just be assigned to scoping out the 'competitors.' Ya got that?"

Determination swept throughout Dipper, and he realized he wanted to show Stan (and Mabel) that he could be an asset to them, and not merely in spying on other vendors. "If I don't sell something to the first person that stops by, fine." Maybe a risky bet to propose, but he was confident he could make it work — how hard could it be? What Stan said suggested these people were a bit on the unintelligent side. Plus, nobody in this town knew how awkward he was, aside from the Mystery Shack employees, so he'd have a fresh slate and could simply act confident.

With a renewed sense of urgency, he returned to marking up the hats and shirts with American words and symbols, this time at a more rigorous pace as if to demonstrate his own usefulness.

"It's a deal, then." Stan smirked slightly. "Can't wait to see how you mess this up."

"I won't!" Dipper protested, wishing he could _just for once_ have the natural charisma that Mabel did, or even Stan. He could be so much more to them than another set of eyes.

"Whatever you say, bud. Hey Mabel," Stan's attention diverted to her. "That's a nice, uh, flag you got going there."

"Thanks!" Mabel beamed at the compliment, lifting her contraption to show an unfortunate excuse of a glittery American flag. "I call it: Old Glittery!"

Dipper took in the sight of her modified flag, unsure of what to think or how to begin to respond. "It's… shiny," he offered. "I guess it really captures the… American spirit?" It was impressive in a kitschy way, but he figured Mabel usually was the more artistic and creative one between the two of them.

"Is that because we Americans are so dazzling?"

"Alright!" Stan interrupted. "Looks like we got enough shit, kiddos! Time to pack it up into my car." He swept the majority of the altered 'goods' into his arms and unceremoniously dumped it into a nearby box, beginning to haul it out the door. He had to twist to avoid the energetic form of Mabel, brushing past him through the cramped entryway to go outside.

Dipper collected the articles of clothing that now were marred with phrases like "USA", "Freedom", and "Patriotic" alongside haphazard drawings of eagles, flags, and fireworks. It was all incredibly amateur at best, or unrecognizable at worst, but he thought back to Stan's reassurance that the townsfolk of Gravity Falls weren't particularly selective in their shopping tastes.

At the car, Stan opened the trunk of his red El Diablo to drop the box inside, and the figurines rattled at the impact of hitting the dark carpet. He slammed it shut with a glance down at his arm. "Looks like we gotta get goin'! We don't got time for breakfast, so we'll just grab something there."

"But _Stannn_!" came Mabel's insistent whine, but a moment later she squealed, "I call shotgun!" In a matter of seconds, she was already comfortable in the passenger seat, which left him with very few options of where to sit, not that he was surprised to be banished to the backseat.

"No buts, sweetie! I promise ya, you can have an apple or an orange when we get there." Having closed the trunk of the vehicle with their items safely inside, he was getting in the driver's seat while Dipper followed suit to get into the back.

Stan froze before he proceeded further, and he quickly pulled a hat from his jacket and turned to pass it back to Dipper. "For you, kiddo! To show people you're with the Mystery Shack and replace that… brown thing on your head."

Dipper didn't move to take it yet and instead frowned, confused. "That's my hair." Maybe Stan was trying to subtly convey that he needed a haircut.

"... Oh. Cover it anyway. Seriously."

Deciding not to protest, he accepted the hat from Stan and looked it over, noting that it was one of the nicer items the Mystery Shack carried, though it remained far from worth the price tag. It was blue and white with a pine tree on the front, quite stylish overall, and he slipped it on.

"Alright, lookin' good!" Stan turned back to the front.

"Do I get something?" Mabel was giving Stan the irresistible, pleading eyes.

"No, not today sweetie. You'll be selling things with me. Dipper will be a walking advertisement."

So that's what the hat was about, he realized miserably, but broke in to claim, "I'm still going to show you that I can sell things too." He was just as capable of a salesperson.

Stan shook his head, glancing up at the rearview mirror and adjusting it to bring Dipper into his line of sight. "You keep saying that, but I aint' believin' it 'til I see it for myself."

The drive couldn't have been more than ten minutes, maximum, before they arrived near the town square. It was bustling with energy, people walking and talking and shopping, and multiple vendors had already set up their stands around the edge of the sidewalks to display their wares. There was clothing, pottery, artwork, knick-knacks, collectibles, antiques… everything imaginable, but none of it that appeared to be particularly high quality. He supposed that Stan really knew his customers.

With the windows of the El Diablo rolled down to bring in a cool breeze in the otherwise uncomfortable heat of summer, the scent of food, something Dipper identified as baked goods, wafted through the air. As they drove closer to the townsquare, all he could hear was the noise of chatter, some voices ringing out above the rest to hype up their sales.

One vendor's space was intricately decorated. From a distance, it looked more like a tent instead of a table as most had, and he could make out the words 'TENT OF TELEPATHY' on a large sign followed by various symbols. A bit on the peculiar side since he wasn't a firm believer in any type of psychic, but one operating in a tiny town seemed especially suspicious.

Stan threw the vehicle into park and moved to get out of his car. "Grab the stuff in the back and let's go!" he barked at them as he headed to where he planned on placing the stand, the kids trailing after with their hands full of ready-to-sell items. It was as far away from the Tent of Telepathy as one could reasonably get, an accomodation that was no accident given how many spots were available between them.

They approached the designated table and Stan spread his arms out, as if presenting it to the teenagers. "Now, lo and behold… the Mystery STANd!"

"Booo!" Mabel called in response to the pun but surged forward anyway to begin dumping the items out, sorting them to create an organized display while Dipper worked on doing the same.

He was straightening out the shirts and smoothing wrinkles from the fabric when a shadow passed over him, bringing Dipper to look up only to discover he was face-to-face with an even bigger wall of muscle than Stan. Maybe there was something in the water here. The towering man had a foot of height (at least) on Dipper, and he was about twice or three times as thick. He wore a gray flannel shirt and suspenders, red chest hair poking out from beneath the article.

Dipper wished _this guy_ wasn't the first customer but could see Stan shooting a wolfish smile at him, as if daring him to attempt to make a sale to the brute of a man. His hands clenched into fists, the determination returning, but before Dipper could say anything, a strong arm was shooting out to grasp a shirt from the table, pulling it up to his face for a close inspection.

" **This fabric is WEAK**!" he thundered, gripping it tighter.

Flinching, the force of his voice alone was enough to make Dipper's heart lurch into his throat in terror. He couldn't be a scared kid about this, though; he had to show Stan he was able to make a sale, even if said sale would be to this… beast.

"It's not… _that_ weak, it's just lacking in strength," he laughed nervously, rocking back and forth on his heels with his hands wringing behind his back. Lying was something he'd never excelled at, and this wasn't going exactly as planned, but he could hope… "Want to buy it, man?"

" **It WEAK like tiny child!"** he bellowed.

Dipper forced himself to smile, willing it not to falter right now. "So… is that a yes?" A stretch.

" **NO!"** Teeth bared, the brute of the man pulled the shirt between his hands, tearing it in half with a loud _RIP_ without showing even a hint of strain in the motion.

Horrified by the sudden show of strength, he looked to Stan in alarm but was met with the same smirk and no assistance. His pupils were mere pinpricks as they settled back on the enormous man, and he raised his hand with his index finger out, "Hey, I… I think you'll have to pay for that now…" he said tentatively, trying hard not to cower.

 **"I will pay for YOUR FUNERAL ARRANGEMENTS, LITTLE MAN!"** Reaching out to grab Dipper by the collar of his shirt, he was easily lifted into the air with Dipper's legs kicking uselessly as he spewed apologies, voice an octave higher than normal out of fear.

The grip on the front of his shirt as he flailed in desperation reminded Dipper of his father's worst drunken nights.

 **"I WILL DRIVE MY AXE IN YOUR SKULL AND YELL 'TIMBER' AS YOU FALL TO THE EARTH!"**

"Now, now," Stan's voice was like the call of angels, sweet and smooth and it would have infuriated Dipper if he hadn't been too scared to think of anything else aside from how he was probably going to die right this second. "There's no need to smash anyone's brains in, Dan. The kid just didn't know better, and he sure as hell won't be trying to sell you anything weak again. You'll get only the manliest of merchandise! Like… these soldier figurines!" He whipped one out of his sleeves to show the brute. "As fierce and manly as the real deal! …Or whatever."

 **"HOW MUCH?"** Manly Dan released Dipper, letting him fall to the ground in a heap of pathetic sadness, in order to grab the figurine.

Dazed from the impact and the most terrifying ten seconds of his life, Dipper slowly regained his bearings to scramble away from Manly Dan in a panic, shielding himself behind the Mystery Stand's table once again. Clutching his chest, it heaved as he recovered from the encounter.

"For you," Stan responded slyly, "only fifteen cents."

Manly Dan dropped three nickels into Stan's outstretched palm and lumbered off, leaving Stan to stare at where Dipper was hiding. "You done tryna play salesman, kiddo?"

Still hyperventilating, he was beyond the point of pride and nodded. Scouting out the competition sounded significantly safer than hanging around here to engage with customers if they were anything like Manly Dan.

"Then get your ass to work, and come back with some breakfast!" Stan tossed him the nickels — although he managed to catch two, the other hit him in the cheek, and he was forced to pick it up off the ground.

There was no point in protesting when he'd botched his attempt to demonstrate his nonexistent prowess in sales, so he defeatedly walked away from the Mystery Stand to visit some of the other vendors. Behind him, he could hear Stan and Mabel calling out to anyone who walked by in an attempt to generate interest in their wares. He blocked it out to focus on the assigned task, pausing at a few tables to see what was being sold and how much it was going for before moving on to the next one.

Navigating through the crowd of people, he caught sight of someone familiar and brightened instantly, recognizing Wendy. Intent on snagging her attention amongst the busyness of the marketplace, Dipper didn't notice the other teens. Without thinking about it, he started toward Wendy to amiably call "hey!" and wave. He knew that stupid grin was probably on his face, the one that settled there whenever he talked to her that he couldn't seem to wipe off his face.

To his relief, she seemed to hear him over the sound of shoppers. "Hey Dipper! Nice hat!" Wendy waved back when she saw him approach. "Guys, this is Dipper. He works at the M-Shack too. He's cool."

Wendy's introduction made him realize his tunnel vision's mistake, and Dipper's gaze swept to the other teenagers surrounding her, giving a shier wave to them as well in greeting. He remembered seeing this group a few times, as they were the friends that picked her up every day for lunch, but they'd never interacted before. One of her companions, a guy with dark hair and pale skin (was he a vampire?) scowled at this. "Not cool enough to tag the front window of Greasy's Diner."

"You wrote 'Your food sucks.' That's kinda lame."

Another one of Wendy's friends, a tall blonde male, laughed and elbowed the vampire-friend enough to make him stumble a bit. "Yeah, man, _you're_ lame!"

"Anyway, Dipper. This is Robbie, Lee, Nate, Tambry, and Thompson," she beckoned to each one respectively, eliciting several 'hey!'s back in response. Tambry didn't even glance up from her book, and he was fairly sure Robbie the Vampire was pretending he didn't exist.

It was good to finally meet them, but it left him in a place of not knowing what to say despite yearning for their social approval. If he wanted even a sliver of a chance with Wendy, he was convinced he'd need to impress her friends. "Wendy is constantly telling me about you guys," Dipper said, then quickly regretted it, wishing he'd thought of something more clever. "Well, not _constantly_ , we talk about other stuff too, but…"

"Like how gay Thompson is?" Lee joked.

"Come on guys, I'm not gay!" Thompson's voice cracked in protest, looking like a sad puppy.

"The only one coming on guys is you, Thompson!" Nate added, jumping in to the teasing.

Thompson let out a whiny noise, the corners of his lips twitching downwards further. "That's not what I meant!"

"That's not what you said last night to Robbie!"

Robbie bristled, stepping close to Wendy. "I'm not gay and you know it! I'm with Wendy." He glanced at her affectionately, an over-the-top gesture to prove a point.

Dipper's heart sunk at the words when it processed, feeling like his stomach dropped so far that it fell straight out of his body. He hadn't recalled Wendy ever talking about a boyfriend before, but the phrase 'with Wendy' heavily implied there was a budding romance between them, much to Dipper's dismay.

"Ooh, so a threeway?"

"You're just jealous you're not getting anything from Lee!"

"Aha! You didn't deny it!"

Hardly listening to the conversation, his attention was stuck on Wendy. And Robbie. Robbie and Wendy, together. Steadies, probably. Wendy and Robbie, the couple. It kept running through his head, over and over, haunting and mocking him.

Although Wendy had disclosed that she was a few years older than him, he still had entertained the thought of a relationship possibility since they were good together. There was never a dull moment in their conversations at work, even though the work itself was boring, and at the end of shifts he was disappointed to see her go.

He knew it was nothing more than a silly crush that wouldn't have amounted to anything, but she wasn't mean to him and didn't make fun of him like others did. It felt like Wendy understood, a certain trust between them that he wasn't accustomed to sharing with anyone except Mabel.

Unsure of how long had passed, Dipper snapped out of his thoughts to the sound of Robbie angrily yelling and storming off, his face red and his hands stuffed deeply into his pockets. He was hunched over and fuming, stalking away from the rest of the group to disappear into the crowd of marketplace shoppers. Nate and Lee followed after him, using variations of "really, dude?" and "it was just a joke!" while Tambry idly trailed along, not looking up from her book. Thompson seemed to notice them leaving and rushed to catch up, "Wait for me!"

That left Dipper with Wendy, and he asked, "What's gotten into him?"

She shrugged lightly. "He gets mad sometimes when their teasing gets relentless. He'll be fine." Wendy paused, looking him over and sending a pinch of self-consciousness through Dipper. "What were you thinking about? You got a little spacy on us."

There was no way he was going to tell Wendy the truth, that he was distraught over her relationship status, how he was mourning the fact she was taken, and kicking himself for not acting sooner. "Oh! Uh," he coughed, struggling to think of something plausible, "I was remembering something that happened earlier…" The encounter with Manly Dan came to mind, and he latched onto it, realizing that was the perfect escape. "See, this _huge_ guy came to the Mystery Stand, and… he started acting all crazy, yelling about how the fabric of the shirts was weak. He tore one in half and when I said he'd have to pay for it, he…" this was the part of the story that made Dipper look a bit wimpy in his opinion, but he continued, "literally picked me up and threatened to break my skull with an axe. And he was going to yell 'timber' as I fell to the earth, or something." He tried to play it off as if he hadn't been afraid for his life, that he'd been able to handle it calmly, but his voice betrayed him.

To his surprise, Wendy laughed, not in a rude way, but seemingly amused by the story. "Sounds like you met my dad!"

Dipper choked on his own spit. " _That_ was your dad?!" It took a moment to register, but he guessed they did share physical similarities beyond the color of their hair. Their features were the same shape, their eyes the same shade.

"Yup!"

As long as Manly Dan was around, maybe it was a good thing he wasn't dating Wendy. "Well, I'm pretty sure he wants to murder me gruesomely with his axe," he said, scratching the back of his neck.

"He's a big softy on the inside, but you probably irritated him by trying to sell him Stan's cheap merchandise. Nothing would've happened." She grinned. "Hey, do you wanna get a soda? I think the gang bailed like the lameos they are."

"Sure," he brightened, returning the grin. "Lead the way."

* * *

"Fiddleford, status report," Ford demanded as he paced the expanse of the laboratory, hands clasped behind his back and his coattails fluttering from his urgent gait. His head was pounding from the stress of work since fixing the portal had been a disaster thus far, and it didn't help that he was operating on very few hours of sleep, so tensions were high in the Mystery Shack basement as his patience grew thinner.

Upon receiving no response, he paused to peer to his assistant who seemed to be writing furiously, scribbling something down as if he hadn't even heard the request. An irritable sigh fell from his lips, and he snapped, "Earth to Fiddleford McGucket!"

"Wha?" Fiddleford jumped at the sternness of Ford's voice, the sudden movement spilling his mug of coffee. "Oh, horsefeathers!"

Sharply inhaling as he saw the mess of dark liquid spill onto one of their control panels, he rushed to the machine to inspect the damage but feared it was already too late. "Don't just stand there, get something to clean it up!" Ford yelled, frustratedly wishing his assistant could do something right just for _once_ in the heat of the moment. Time was of the essence, perhaps if they could power it down before it reached the wiring…

Fiddleford scrambled to get up, the black fluid dripping onto the white of his lab coat. With no towels or clothes in their lab, he was forced to attempt soaking up what he could with his uniform jacket.

"What on earth are you _doing_?!" he asked in exasperation as he watched him try to soak it up with… his lab coat.

A _lab coat_!

But he didn't wait to find out why, too busy attempting to power down the panel before it could short-circuit.

"There ain't any towels down here!" Fiddleford exclaimed. "This here's the best we got – it'll take too long to get up'n the elevator and stairs and back." While his logic may have been sound, it remained that the lab coat was doing a terrible job of clearing away the spilled coffee. Meanwhile, Fiddleford was panicking, using the thin sheet of fabric to pull much of the coffee onto the floor.

Ignoring the burning, sticky substance now coating his hands and clothes, he was able to pull the switch that'd begin to shut down the electricity leading to the panel, but his worst fears were confirmed when a zapping noise came from within the metal. The panel's lights flickered and went out, leaving Ford with the realization their work over the past few days had gone entirely to square one in a matter of seconds.

"Absolutely unacceptable," he muttered, feeling defeated as he wondered how many times they would have to rebuild the components of the portal before they'd have it working finally. Between Bill's destructive behavior, Stan's reckless fighting, and now Fiddleford's _stupidity_... He turned around slowly to face Fiddleford, hostility in his gaze when it settled on the other, but his voice was unwavering and cold. He had to stay collected, couldn't break down... "Fiddleford, I am unbelievably disappointed in you."

Perhaps if he'd been thinking straight, he wouldn't have been so harsh toward his friend, but all he saw was work down the drain through eyes with deep bags under them. Every inch of him felt exhausted.

"I-I'm sorry," Fiddleford apologized. Much of his outfit was ruined by the attempt to clean the spill, leaving his clothes brown, wet, and reeking of coffee. "I didn't mean to knock it over, I swear!"

"When I hired you to be my assistant, it was because I expected better of you." Although he knew it was an accident, it was still more work added — work they should've only had to do once, not four times over after several incidents. "You've rendered our time wasted."

The scrawny figure of Fiddleford tensed. " _I've_ rendered our time wasted? Yer the one who broke the machine to begin with! With yer foolish, childish fight with Stanley! If you'd just grow up a lil', we wouldn't have had to fix it again."

Taken aback by the response, Ford's eyes narrowed contentiously. He thought back to the fight and recognized that it _was_ a huge setback since it'd dismantled the portal, but it wasn't as if he had been directly responsible. "Stanley attacked _me_ ," he reminded Fiddleford, "and as it seems you've forgotten, I tried to diffuse the situation multiple times." He'd been a victim of Stan's impulsiveness.

" _Conversely_ ," Ford motioned to the mess of the control panel, the buttons still dripping with coffee, "this was nothing but a result of your lack of attention and clumsiness, followed by an inability to determine an appropriate response under pressure." Again, it was brutal to be speaking this way to a childhood friend and partner, but he was at his wit's end with everyone hindering his research without a second of hesitance. It would take weeks to repair the damage, maybe months — if it could be done at all, Ford thought miserably.

"Stanley only attacked you because he's been fed up with yer behavior. And honestly, it's gettin' right hard to blame him when you've gotten in the habit of blaming everyone else for yer problems. If you'd just not be a prick for once, none of this would've happened!"

Anger welled within him at the accusation, and he snarled, " _My_ behavior? I've been strictly professional and polite, and it's been met with incredible disregard for my work." He'd asked Bill to refrain from taking things without receiving prior permission, and Stan to stay out of the basement. Where he'd gone wrong with either of those, he hadn't the slightest clue but didn't think he was deserving of such disrespect over simple requests.

"You throw everyone's mistakes in their faces! That's not bein' polite _or_ professional, Stanford!"

"What were you hoping for? A kiss on the cheek?" Ford's words were venomous, a warning that Fiddleford was treading into dangerous territory. "I'm not going to reward you for destroying the control panel." It'd be ridiculous to believe he'd be fine with this; it was his career, his hard work, all thrown away over an easily-avoided mistake.

"I were hoping you'd grow on up fer a change and forgive others for their mistakemajigs! All you've done these past few years is hold grudges and harassin' others, and I'm gettin' sick of it! All of this," Fiddleford beckoned to where the pieces of the portal laid, "could've been avoided if you just learned to get over yerself."

"If you are referring to Stanley's 'mistake', I'd rather not hear it. You don't know him like I do and therefore lack the authority to preach to me about it." Ford remained convinced Stan sabotaged his project intentionally, especially when he'd expressed disappointment in his plans to go to West Coast Tech. And if he had accidentally broken it, there was no excuse for not telling him of the damage so he could take the proper steps in fixing it before the recruiters had arrived. Maybe it wasn't done with malicious intent, but it'd still affected his future.

But that wasn't what this conversation was about, apparently. According to Fiddleford, he needed to get over himself, and the mere notion made his stomach churn since it suggested Fiddleford actually saw him as a childish brat that wasn't over an incident that happened seven years ago. That wasn't the case; he'd been working hard to prove he had moved on to make something of himself, building a respectable career in the field.

However, it just so happened that individuals from his past continued to hinder him in his new endeavors, and Fiddleford had the guts to defend them to his face. Ford felt betrayed by the lack of support and loyalty, his closest confidant choosing to turn against him. To tell him he was in the wrong, that it was his fault.

If he couldn't trust Fiddleford, he figured he couldn't be with him — professionally or romantically anymore. "You are free to leave, Fiddleford." His statement was emotionless and detached, sounding more drained than sad. "And I am referring to the Mystery Shack." It was unfortunate that being fired was also the dissolution of their relationship, not that it felt like a relationship to begin with.

"Fine, I'll go!" Fiddleford stepped away from the destroyed control panel and Ford, his shoulders dropping in defeat. "I'm tired of working for you anywho. All you've done is be a jerk who only gave a flyin' hogpoodle about yer 'work' and 'experiments'. You never even bothered to do anythin' romantic with me, and I was supposed to be yer _boyfriend_ , or did you forget that when you was having that lover's quarrel with Stanley the other day?" He spat at Ford's feet, his saliva striking his shoes, leading him to take a disgusted step back.

Ford's face went red, but he wasn't sure if it was from fury or embarrassment at the implication or a combination of both. Fiddleford was aware of their extensive _history_ , partly because he'd been there as the third member of their friend group during their childhood and teenage years, but also because Stan wouldn't stop talking about it. "Collect your belongings and leave."

With that, he strode past Fiddleford to go to the basement elevator, not sparing him another glance even when he could hear Fiddleford call "I'll be darned happy to!" after him. "I hope yer experiments are worth losing everyone who gave a dang about ya!"

Eyes trained forward, he didn't stop until he reached the kitchen table, slamming a bottle of Stan's whiskey onto the wooden surface — it wasn't much of a secret that his brother kept alcohol stashed around the Mystery Shack in various locations. Ford harbored suspicions that he sneaked a drink or two while working the tours, but he couldn't blame him despite his usual distaste for the substance. The intelligence (or lack thereof) of the Gravity Falls townsfolk would make the most clean man want to chug a bottle or two.

As he poured the whiskey into a glass, he reflected on how he couldn't even recall the last time he'd had an alcoholic beverage; it simply wasn't something he craved or cared about, preferring to keep his wits about him. The taste was never particularly appealing, either. But this… this was a special occasion, a rarity, and it created a unique set of circumstances under which Ford couldn't think of anything better to do for the next couple hours except feel sorry for himself with this whiskey to keep him company since Fiddleford wasn't an option anymore.

A ripple of sadness washed over him despite his attempts to remain unemotional, and he fought against the growing urge to break down and sob. Being objective about this was impossible. He hadn't wanted his friendship with Fiddleford to crumble like this — the conclusion of the romantic aspect of their relationship was a tragedy, but not what he was upset about. He was losing a friend he'd had throughout his childhood, someone who'd been there for him when Stan wasn't. Unlike his brother, Fiddleford had understood Ford's pursuit of academics and didn't make fun of him for it, actually aiming to be supportive.

Now, Fiddleford was walking out of his life, probably out of Gravity Falls as well since he had no reason to stay. He supposed it was the logical sequence of events when their interactions leading up to that moment had been increasingly strained, but made it no less painful, and that was enough to coax Ford into bringing the glass to his lips, downing the first few swallows while ignoring the burn in the back of his throat.

* * *

Without Dipper around to turn potential sales into awkward disasters, things had gone smoothly. The folks of Gravity Falls were stopping by and snatching up the items like hotcakes, and the only indicator of how much time had passed was the sun shifting to hover directly over them.

It didn't take long for them to receive new customers, and Mabel was bouncing at the opportunity to sell the approaching males some 'fine' crafts. Stan had been 'stan'dling most of the transactions, and she was eager to do more than just stand around and look pretty.

As they neared the Mystery Stand, Mabel got a better look at them. One was quite tall and lanky while the other was short and slightly chubby, it seemed the only similarity they shared was that they both were overly dressed for the occasion in formal attire. The tall male boasted a patterned, yellow business vest with a black bowtie (it had yellow stars on it, Mabel adored the decoration), sleeves, and slacks, and the slightest splash of white where his vest veered off to expose his dress shirt.

He was blonde, though part of his hair was concealed by a top hat, and one eye was covered by a triangular eyepatch. His visible eye was dark in color, and it could have merely been the shade of his hat casting a strange light on it, but she could swear the whites had a yellow tinge. It was probably because the rest of him was, though. To Mabel, he looked like Abraham Lincoln, tall with a top hat, crossed with a bumblebee.

The short and pudgy male was another story. His entire outfit was baby blue, save for what appeared to be a black dress shirt beneath his jacket, a tiny white tie, and a pin of the American flag. His hair was white and poofy, like a cloud, and Mabel wondered if it'd be as soft as one.

They were certainly a pair to behold. The height difference was astonishing, and they looked at least a couple years apart in age too.

"Well, well, Stanley Pines, my good friend and 'formidable' business rival!" the short one greeted in what sounded like mock endearment, clasping his baby hands together. "Fancy seein' you here."

"Gideon," Stan's scornful voice rang out, palms coming down hard on the surface of the Mystery Stand's table. "Shouldn't you be off doing idiotic psychic stuff, or do you only do that when your daddy's around to hold your hand?"

Chuckling quietly, Gideon closed his eyes and shook his head, "Tsk tsk, Stanley, control yourself. That's no way to greet a pal."

"Hiya, Stan!" said the taller one, gaze sweeping over the pile of junk on the table. "Hoho, who're we scamming today?" While he had been about to say more, Mabel interrupted him by placing a shooting star sticker on his nose. In her defense, the star-pattern matched his bowtie.

"Surprise, you've been stanned!" Mabel cut in with a wide grin, thinking her poor attempt of a pun was a hoot. Spending time at the market with Stan had been a blast despite not participating much with the sales, and she liked trying to twist 'scammed' into 'stanned.' She thought it – and the rest of her Stan related puns – were quite creative. "That'll be five cents. Pay up, sucker!"

She could hear Stan laugh, and she felt him slap her on the back lightly. "That's my girl!"

Seemingly noticing her for the first time, Gideon's eyes lit up, appearing dazzled by the display. "Oh my," he gasped dreamily, "to who do I owe such a delightful acquaintance?"

Before Mabel could respond, the tall one wrinkled his nose in mild disdain. "Ah, a little shooting star has been spending too much time with Stan I see." He plucked the sticker off his nose, flicking it onto the table. "Make all the demands you want, but you won't be getting a penny from me."

"I'm Mabel!" She introduced herself to Gideon. "Your hair looks soft. Are you sure it's not a cloud that landed on your head?"

Gideon giggled at the question, flattered. "Why thank you! I do try to keep my hair in peak condition." He leaned closer with lidded eyes, elbow on the stand table. "While I'm certain it isn't a cloud, I'm not so convinced you aren't an angel that fell from the sky."

Given his small stature, Mabel was amazed he was able to get his elbow on the table but soon became distracted by his compliment. She faintly went red and fanned herself. "I guess I must look pretty beat up then, if I fell all the way down here."

"Beauty and a sense of humor, how enchanting!" Gideon commented to himself in a whisper, looking awestruck by her.

"Okay, this is gross," Stan muttered.

The tall male laughed, an eyebrow hitching in interest. "Nowhere near as gross as how you look at Brainiac."

"That's different!" Stan scowled at the blonde, though Mabel could tell it wasn't serious. "What brings you here anyway, Bill?"

"Oh, y'know." Bill crossed his arms, leaning against the support beam of the Mystery Stand's sign. "Just checking out the goods while the market's open. Figured I'd see you around since there's no way you'd pass up an opportunity to make a couple bucks off these people's collective stupidity."

Stan shrugged. "What can I say? They make it easier than stealing candy from a baby."

"Say, when will we be hitting the town?" Bill inquired, a certain slyness to his voice. "I've been missing my favorite drinking and race buddy."

"You're always missing me," Stan laughed. "Can't go a few days without you wanting to hang."

Something a bit dark flickered in the depths of Bill's eye for just a second, and Stan continued, "But look, the next race is scheduled in a few weeks, so if you want to go out sooner we can probably arrange something." There was a slight pause. "I've been missin' ya around the Shack, Bill. It hasn't been the same with the Nerd Crew about."

"A couple of nerds are giving you a hard time?" Bill teased.

Stan grumped. "You have no idea! I got in a fight with Ford—"

"All that pent up sexual tension finally snapped, huh?"

"And we accidentally crashed into their stupid portal," he ignored his comment, "and the fucking thing broke and somehow it's all MY fault?"

"Oh, did he ban you from the basement too? Welcome to the club, buddy!"

Mabel was at a loss, unsure of what was going on in the discussion. Everyone but her was in the loop, and it wasn't helping that the new boy kept staring at her. At least he was cute.

"So Mabel," Gideon began, never taking his eyes off of hers but reaching for her hand, "are you new to Gravity Falls? I don't believe I've seen your pretty face here before, and I know I would've remembered."

"Yep!" Was it really that obvious? She couldn't wrap her mind around how tiny Gravity Falls really was. It seemed ridiculously tight-knit.

"Ooh, pardon my rudeness and allow me to formally introduce myself, then! I'm Gideon Gleeful, a real psychic — nothing like this fraud Stanley Pines here." He giggled, catching the dirty look Stan shot him. "I'm just playin', Stanley. But as I was sayin', I make appearances on television, and—"

"Hey Pentagram," the sound of Bill's fingers snapping stole Gideon and Mabel's attention. "If you're gonna ask Shooting Star out, just do it. I've got places to be."

Confused, Mabel realized the nickname Shooting Star was referring to her, but then it clicked: the star sticker she'd poked his nose with… and unsuccessfully tried to make a sale off of.

"In that case, please excuse how forward this is, but…" Gideon blushed, smiling shyly. "Mabel, would you give me the honor of taking you on a date?"

"I'd be delighted!" Mabel squealed. Her first date? She never thought she'd see the day!

"Wonderful! I'll be by the Mystery Shack tomorrow evening to pick you up. Perhaps Bill would be so kind to chauffeur us?"

"Gideon," the amused Bill addressed him. "Is it really picking the lady up if you have to run to me to do it?"

Gideon answered him with a huffy glance as if to say, 'not in front of my date!' but Mabel couldn't think about anything aside from how darn _adorable_ he was.

Mabel giggled. "You're funny. I'll see you two then!" She couldn't believe her luck — a cute boy and a date just by attending this dumb market thing!

With the date set up and the goodbyes made, Mabel watched as Gideon and Bill departed from the stand. "Stan!" She squealed once they were out of sight, releasing the pent up energy by jumping up and down like an excited puppy. "Omygosh, did you hear that? I got a DATE! With a real boy! ...I think he's a boy." It didn't make a difference to her, really. A date was a date. "I have to talk to Dipper like, NOW!"

"Uh, okay sweetie." He seemed slightly startled by her enthusiasm. "You do whatever you gotta do, I'll be here if ya need me."

Still squealing with excitement, Mabel dashed away from the Mystery Stand in search of her brother. It took dodging through the crowd to steal a glimpse of Dipper and Wendy together at a table. They were drinking Pitt Colas, and she watched as Dipper went from laughing at something Wendy said to choking on a pit. Nice.

"Dipper!" Mabel called as she neared them, waving her arms. "Ohmygosh, DIPPER! We need to talk!"

Hearing his name, Dipper's attention landed on her. "Uh, looks like I should go. I guess Mabel wants me," he said to Wendy, beginning to get up from the table. "This sounds like it could be important… the only other time I've seen her so excited was when the Beach Boys sent her an autographed letter."

Approaching her, he asked, "Are you okay? You look like you've downed twenty packets of Smile—"

She didn't even give him a chance to finish, shouting excitedly, "I GOT A DATE!" She was practically vibrating in place and felt like she could burst into rainbow-colored confetti at any second from how happy she was.

Dipper appeared perplexed at first, perhaps by the force of her announcement, but then smiled. "That's great! ...A little soon, but great! Who is your date with?"

"His name is Gideon, and he's a bit short, but he has the cloudiest of hair and he's sooo nice and he's picking me up tomorrow!" Or technically Bill was the one driving them but… whatever! The point was, she was going on a date!

"So the date's tomorrow? I can't wait to meet him," Dipper said, tilting his head. "He sounds…. really interesting."

"I think you'll like him," Mabel excitedly told him. "Or you'll at least like standing next to him because he'll make you look tall."

Dipper's expression fell flat, but the smile returned after a moment as he laughed softly. "Come on, Mabel, I'm not that short."

"That's exactly what a short person would say!" Mabel said gleefully, finding entertainment in Dipper's insistence that he wasn't short. Unable to stop herself, she asked, "Hey Dipper, do _you_ have any Gravity Falls crushes yet? Tell me all the juicy details!"

"I don't exactly _have_ …" he trailed off, blushing and averting his eyes.

"So you DO have a crush. Come on, Dipper! You can tell me ANYTHING!" Clutching Dipper's shoulders, her eyes got wide as they bore into his. " _Anything_."

"I know, I know," Dipper replied quickly, "just... you can't tell anybody else, okay? It's kind of embarrassing." She was glad he seemed to cave faster than usual; she always could sniff out when Dipper had a crush, and he wasn't good at claiming he didn't have one. Her brother looked over his shoulder for a second as if making sure nobody was around, cheeks getting even brighter. "I have a crush on… Wendy," quickly, he added, "but I swear it's no big deal!"

The confession brought a thrill through Mabel. "WENDY?" Her squeal was loud, unrestrained. "You have a crush on Wendy? That's soo cute! You should tell her!" Maybe she liked him back, and then they could both have dates! Happy ending!

"Shh!" Dipper hushed her, glancing over his shoulder again. "I'm not going to tell her! She already has a steady, and… I don't even think she'd be into me like that."

She didn't care if Wendy had a steady, Dipper could replace whoever it was and be her new and improved steady. "You don't know unless you try!"

"No way, Mabel! I don't want her to think I'm weird and stop talking to me. We haven't even known each other a full week!"

"Everyone thinks you're weird and we still talk to you, it's okay!"

The look on his face said it wasn't the confidence boost he was hoping for, and his words reflected it, "That's not reassuring at all."

She pressed. "Go for it! Nothing bad'll happen from confessing your love of Wendy to her face!"

"I'm not in love with her!" The way Dipper's face was growing more red led Mabel to think otherwise. "It's just… a little crush. It'll go away, and I don't want her steady to beat me up. He's kind of scary."

Ignoring his protests, Mabel began to sing: "Dipper and Wendy, sittin' in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G! First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes baby in a baby ca—!"

A hand was slapped over her mouth while an expression of horror sat on Dipper's features. "Shhh! Be quiet, Mabel!"

The best way to get one's hand off her mouth was to lick it, and she did so without another thought, causing him to pull it back. "Salty!"

"Ew! Gross." Examining his now-wet hand, Dipper dried it off on his pants. Sighing, he asked, "What are you doing here anyway? I thought you were helping Stan with the sales." There was a hint of bitterness in that, and she wondered if he was still upset over his flop of an attempt at selling a shirt.

"I wanted to tell you about my date!" Mabel was still excited about it. What should she wear? She liked her shooting star shirt, but there was also the one with cupcakes… "Why were you hanging out with Wendy? I thought Stan wanted you to get breakfast and scope out the competition."

"I did look at the competition! But then Wendy and her friends came by and I," he paused, scratching the back of his neck, "got distracted. I was taking a break to talk to her, it would've been rude not to."

She didn't want his drawn out, slightly-guilty-sounding explanation. She just wanted food. "So you get to drink soda while everyone else _starves_?"

Dipper appeared even more sheepish. "I was going to pick up the oranges in a couple minutes, but then you started yelling for me…"

"By a couple minutes, you mean another hour and a half with Wendy." She was a little irritated with how sidetracked he'd become from his work when she and Stan had been working their butts off at the stand.

"I–"

Mabel grabbed his hand, pulling him toward one of the fruit vendors. "Come on! I'm so hungry I could eat a Soos!"

* * *

"Alright kids, we're packin' it up!" Stan announced since the day was winding down as the afternoon shifted into the early evening. After enjoying a fruity breakfast of apples and oranges and a lunch composed of only ice cream, Stan had sent Dipper back to scouting out the competition. The boy was useless otherwise, and it seemed like even spying wasn't going well with how often he gazed longingly at Wendy.

Whenever he'd come by the Mystery Stand, Dipper would sigh sadly and occasionally ask questions about her, all of which were met with the same response from Stan: "ask her yourself, kid." And then he'd be shoved back into the crowd in what he hoped would encourage the teen to actually do his job rather than pine after Wendy.

Stan had enough to deal with now that Mabel had a date. She'd spent the last several hours bouncing around like a raccoon on cocaine, frequently asking him about what she should wear, and if she should style her hair, and if she needed makeup. How the fuck should he know? He wasn't fashionable like Bill. He liked things _practical_ , not spectacularly dapper.

Besides, he didn't even _like_ her date as a human being. He was conniving, a thorn in his side — but for Mabel's sake, he wasn't going to bring down her mood just because he had a personal grudge against Gideon.

That fat baby blue potato.

He wasn't even cute. Not like Ford, but he tried to brush those thoughts away as he, Mabel, and Dipper cleared away what was left on the table into the box and transported it into the El Diablo. He figured it could be sold another Sunday, or as a limited edition item in the gift shop. The suckers would buy anything shiny, and if they didn't buy it, he'd have Mabel throw on some more glitter. That would catch the attention of their pea-sized brains.

As they neared the vehicle, he could hear Mabel's claim of the passenger seat, and he reminded her, "You had it on the ride over here, sweetie. Give that nerdy brother of yours a chance."

"But Stan–!"

"Would you rather I throw you in the trunk?" Stan asked, not wanting to spend a half-hour arguing over who got shotgun. It seemed only fair to give it to Dipper this time. "I can move the merchandise in the back so there's room for you in there." That shut her up real quick, though her expression was of displeasure as she obediently entered the vehicle. "Good girl."

Although Dipper looked uncertain, he climbed into the passenger side as Stan got comfortable in the driver's seat. Sitting in the back, Mabel had her arms folded in a pout.

Starting the El Diablo, he wasted no time in throwing it in drive and hitting the gas. His vehicle shot forward like a beauty, kicking up dust in her wake.

Gradually, the sounds of the town square faded into the distance, leaving the buzzing marketplace behind them as they headed toward the secluded Mystery Shack. The road became rougher as denser trees and brush appeared to each side, a sign they were departing from the heart of the town and heading into the countryside.

In his rearview mirror, Stan could see a familiar gold Phoenix approaching and a mischievous grin settled on his lips, recognizing it as Bill's vehicle. He heard the horn blaring several times before the convertible changed into the left lane and increased its speed until they were side-by-side. A race proposition if he'd ever seen one.

Glancing over, he could see Gideon in the passenger seat—the little troll was probably snagging a ride home since he wasn't old enough to drive—and Bill on the driver's side, smirking back at him.

"What did you do, Stan?" Dipper seemed puzzled, anxiously wringing his hands together, and a panicked squeak escaped the kid as he saw how close the Phoenix had become. "Oh god, is… is this road rage? Are they trying to run us off the road?!"

While he could understand why that'd come to the mind of an inexperienced teenager—Bill was in the wrong lane and being in the path of oncoming traffic was a dangerous move for a simple race, it was still ridiculous. Road rage in Gravity Falls? Unheard of.

But street racing? Pretty acceptable and common, given the lack of law enforcement and excess stretches of country roads.

Stan laughed, keeping pace with the other vehicle for a few seconds to accept the silent, lingering challenge that Bill had extended. "Hell no! Didn't ya want to be in a race, kiddo?"

As expected, Bill's vehicle blasted forward after a short moment, and Stan hit the gas with the intent to beat his friend at his own game, their powerful engines roaring to life as they sped down the road. He knew there was nothing at stake here, except perhaps his pride in the El Diablo, but it was fun nonetheless.

Mabel peered at the Phoenix as they settled beside it again, managing to catch up, her eyes lighting up in recognition as she glimpsed the signature top hat of Bill. "Is Gideon in there?!" She asked, probably wondering if her knight in shining armor had come.

Although Dipper seemed less worried now that he had connected what was happening, he asked, "Um, do ...you know these people?" Stan's attention was trained on the road, focused, but in his peripherals he could see Dipper trying to get a better look at their competitor by leaning forward.

"Yeah," Stan confirmed Mabel's suspicions. "Your lil' potato troll is in there." So much for staying neutral on that to avoid souring Mabel's date. Oh well. To Dipper, he added: "This is Gravity Falls, kid. Everyone knows everyone. This 'everyone' just so happens to be a riot, the best pal a guy could have." Ford didn't know what he was talking about when he said Bill was horrible. The only terrible person in Gravity Falls was Ford, and that was mostly because of how unbearably childish he was. It'd been _seven_ years, for money's sake!

Bill surging ahead dragged him from his thoughts, and he pushed the gas pedal down harder, giving it a bit of a nudge to overtake him while there was still time to do so — it was getting close to the final moments of the race with a car coming up in the other lane, zooming toward them. But he couldn't lose, not when he had the advantage of being in the right spot.

"I put a sticker on his nose and he refused to buy it!" Stan couldn't tell if she was upset or not over that. It was hard to when her only emotion was 'upbeat over date'.

" _Who_?" Dipper pressed, but there wasn't an opportunity to answer.

" _Fuck!_ " Stan's foot slammed down on the brake, forcing the El Diablo to slow down in a matter of seconds to avoid hitting the new obstruction. At the last possible moment, Bill had cut in front of him to get out of the way of the oncoming vehicle – successfully overtaking him once and for all, winning their impromptu race. "Son of a bitch!" His hands came crashing down onto the steering wheel angrily, the horn bleating. Bill honked back, more than likely mocking him, before the Phoenix sped up again and vanished into the distance.

"Gideon's so _dreamy_ ," Mabel murmured as she gazed after the Phoenix. "Did you see him, Dipper?"

Dipper appeared shaken from the experience and was grasping onto the dash, but he seemed to have had a good time from the dazed look in his eyes. "It, uh," he swallowed, collecting his thoughts, "happened pretty quickly, but… I think so? The one in the blue, right?"

"The _gorgeous_ one in blue," she responded before her mushy daydreams about Gideon seemed to distract her. Yuck.

Stan glanced over at Dipper, noting how his pupils were pinpricks and his knuckles had drained of blood from his tight grip. "Ya need to relax over there, kid. Take a deep breath or two. That was nothin'."

Nervously, he ran a hand through his hair. "How fast were we even going? It felt like flying."

"Uh…" Stan hadn't been paying much attention to the speedometer, but he had a rough idea. "Over ninety, if I had to guess."

At that, he seemed to sink back into the cushion of the seat, mystified by what'd just occurred. "I.. I had no idea it'd be like that." A small laugh finally escaped him to Stan's relief, since he'd been concerned he'd traumatized the poor kid with the way he'd been fretting. "That was amazing."

"Your life must've been pretty dull if that's the case." Stan smirked smugly because when they got around to a real race, he knew it'd be much more intense.

As they drove further down the road, the outline of a parked vehicle could be seen on the side of the road and Stan perked up at the sight of it, amusement bubbling as they grew closer to the stranded car. He burst into laughter as they closed in, now able to verify the identity without a trace of a doubt. It was Bill's, and as he suspected, his precious Phoenix had overheated following their short race. "Take that, suckers!" Stan yelled out his window as he rolled it down and they passed.

"Do they need help?" Dipper inquired, staring out his window in concern at the two figures standing around the Phoenix. "Should we stop?"

"Nah, this happens all the time." Once it cooled off, they'd be good to go, but in the meantime, he could enjoy the thought of Gideon having a little toddler tantrum while Bill stood around frustratedly waiting for the damn thing to cool.

Score for the El Diablo, Stan arrogantly thought to himself. She could still hold her own at the drop of a hat, even against a monstrously souped up and expensive Phoenix.

Almost to the Mystery Shack, the rest of the ride was a toss up of conversations: Mabel once again gushing about her upcoming date, and now Dipper sounding just as giddy about participating in a real race, asking Stan a plethora of questions about the sport. They pulled into the dirt parking lot of the Shack and he killed the engine, telling the teens to haul the leftover merchandise from the trunk and bring it in to be sorted later.

As they left the vehicle and grabbed the boxes from the trunk, Stan was the first to the door that led to the foyer, connecting the kitchen and living room. He opened the door and took a step inside the frame, stopping in his tracks when confronted with the sight of Ford at the kitchen table. Flushed (had he been _crying_?) and slightly intoxicated, with a bottle of whiskey— _his_ whiskey, that _fucker_ —in his hand and an empty glass beside him. His eyes were glassy, he looked out of it. "Aw, shit." Turning around to face the approaching Dipper and Mabel, he blocked their way. "Kids! On second thought, drop your stuff on the porch then go play outside! I'll call you when dinner's ready."

"But aren't we supposed to be making dinner?" Dipper asked, blinking in confusion and not-so-subtly trying to see around him, the more curious of the two.

"Not tonight." Stan maneuvered to keep the kitchen out of Dipper's sight. He didn't need to see Ford in such a sorry state; hell, he wasn't even supposed to interact with Ford at all, that'd been part of the deal of staying here. "Now go explore the forest or somethin'. Maybe you'll find something interesting in there."

"I want pasta," Mabel told him. "Will we have pasta tonight?"

"Whatever you want, sweetie, as long as you go play in the woods."

Dipper frowned, hesitant. "You're actually kicking us out?"

"Yup!" Stan ushered them out and slammed the door behind them, sliding the lock to ensure they couldn't sneak back in.

With them out of the way, he turned back to the kitchen, to his brother who hadn't even seemed to notice his presence. He didn't know what the hell had happened while they were gone, but he had to deal with it on his own.

"What am I gonna do with you, Ford?"


	5. Chapter 5

Stan stared at his sorry excuse for a brother, unsure of how to proceed. Ford never drank, save for once but that was when they were kids screwing around. He knew his brother hated the taste of alcohol, shunned it like it was against his religion (he didn't even have one!), and seeing him buzzed was… mind blowing.

If he didn't know better, he'd assume Ford was trashed from the way his eyes were glazed and unfocused, his attention on something distant, while he wore an expression similar to that of a kicked puppy. With ruddy cheeks and puffy eyes, Stan recognized that he'd been crying most of the time, not spending the hours downing whiskey. Good riddance, the effect it had on Ford wasn't a positive one, and he didn't want to deal with him being more of an asshole. Crossing into the kitchen, Stan grabbed one of the kitchen chairs and dragged it over to the table, the wood screeching against the tile. He plopped down onto it, leaning forward with his elbow resting on the flat surface.

"You look like hell."

As if he hadn't realized Stan's presence prior to now, Ford's eyes snapped to his only to look away again like he was ashamed of this, getting caught in a moment of weakness. But who was he to judge? To claim he didn't indulge himself in alcohol a little too often would be a flat out lie.

When he didn't reply, he bit down a sigh. Ah, the silent treatment. He wasn't surprised by Ford's lack of response but was surely going to pull _something_ out of the dopey nerd. "Ya alive there, Sixer? You need medical help or somethin'? 'Cause I ain't gettin' it for ya after you raided my stash." After a second of no reply, Stan jabbed him in his shoulder.

It worked—barely—since it elicited a pitiful moan from Ford, a strained noise of mourning. Over what, Stan had no idea. "I have a pulse, don't I?" he mumbled, and Stan wanted to roll his eyes. Very helpful. Leave it to Ford to be shutting him out in an obvious time of need, classic.

"I dunno," Stan said. "I haven't cut your chest open to find out." What did Ford want from him? He wasn't a doctor. He hardly knew what a pulse was. The most he recalled from school was something about the wrist and neck.

"No," Ford replied miserably, but it sounded more like a whine to Stan. "You 'lready told me you weren't going to get medical help, I'd bleed out." So he was slurring a little, just a hint, and was actually humoring him for a change—an indicator he'd been drinking, but was far from drunk. Maybe the effects were already wearing off, depending on when he'd started.

Stan couldn't help but laugh a little, thinking about what he'd said because even when drinking, he had to be an intellectual. "Yeah, can't have ya getting blood all over my damn tile."

The pained look Ford gave him was priceless, but heart-wrenching with how his expression wavered, lips twitching as he seemed to fight a frown.

"I'm just jestin', Sixer. I wouldn't kill ya even if it were easy." He loved him too much to kill him. Life without Ford wouldn't be worth living.

"You wouldn't?" Stan had a feeling it was a question, but it was closer to a statement, and he waited to see where he was going with this. "But… but I'm not—" his voice wavered like he was remembering something, "polite or professional…" Ford's breathing had picked up, hitching dangerously, and he wailed, " _And I throw everyone's mistakes in their faces_."

Yikes, who dismantled his 'mightier than thou' barrier? This was new, and he wasn't totally sure how to react to it. Treading carefully, Stan said, "Nah, I wouldn't kill ya. I just so happen to like ya lots, even when you're a crying mess on my table." What the hell had happened? It was like he was reciting a memory out loud. "I'm not polite or professional either, I dunno why it's an issue to ya."

"That's different," a definite whine this time, "nobody expects you to be." Well, that was a step in the right direction when he couldn't tell if Ford was insulting or complimenting him.

"They don't expect you to be either, darlin'." Using a term of endearment was playing a risky game, one he thought he _might_ be able to get away with since Ford was intoxicated, his guard down. He stiffened and squeezed his eyes shut, preparing for the inevitable slap that would probably mark his cheek, but at least it would be more on par with normal Ford. A knee-jerk reaction would confirm he had his brother back.

When Ford defied his expectations and instead collapsed into his side, Stan's eyes flew open, utterly stunned by the turn of events. "Who are you and what did you do to Stanford Pines?" He was almost completely serious, wondering if this was some experiment gone awry.

That managed to draw a sad, pathetically small chuckle from him, but there was no trace of joy in the laugh. "Stanley, be serious." Ford never acted like this, and he was beginning to rethink his stance on getting medical attention, especially when he realized he could feel Ford's form trembling against him.

"I am serious," Stan said. "You're never like this. What the ever-loving _fuck_ happened while I was gone?"

In a terrible attempt at providing an explanation, Ford reached out toward the half-empty bottle of whiskey and poked the glass as if indicating that he'd been drinking. How fucking stupid did he think he was?

Annoyed, Stan slapped his hand away from it. "You don't get to touch my booze, thief."

A huff escaped Ford. "Too late, and… _you're_ a thief." The comeback of a lifetime, Stan mused.

"What, did I steal your heart all over again?" It'd been a few days since he had last asked, but since Ford seemed adamant on calling him a thief… well, he may as well try to steal something he actually wanted.

"Hardly," he mumbled with a brief nod toward the whiskey. "You won't even allow me to indulge myself."

It wasn't Stan's fault Ford defaulted to his stash. "Get your own booze if you wanna do that."

Sarcastically, he said, "Charming. Too cheap to buy alcohol for your date. I'm not surprised."

"You know it, handsome." Since his last term of endearment worked out (well, no reaction was better than a poor one), he boldly did it again. "We're dating again? God damn, I wish I'd known sooner so I could've bent you over this table.."

"No," Stan couldn't see, but he knew Ford was rolling his eyes. "I prefer those without an extensive criminal record."

Or so he claimed. "Just you wait, Sixer. You say that now, but I'll win back your affection."

It wasn't much, but he could hear Ford snort quietly. Progress. "Let me assure you, this conversation hasn't helped your case in the slightest."

Stan smirked, the corners of his lips curving up. "I don't believe that's true." Ford could deny that there was something between them, but Stan was unwilling to believe he was being honest with himself. As cliche as it was, they were puzzle pieces, fitting together so perfectly under every circumstance. Even now, he'd struck up a banter with a visibly-intoxicated and upset Ford, so how he couldn't see their chemistry was a mystery to him.

"Oh? Care to elaborate?" he asked, eyebrows knitting together. Stan recognized that look of concentration, but this wasn't some complex arithmetic problem that Ford could solve inside the confines of his mind.

"Come on, Sixer. You can't honestly say this discussion has killed your arousal for me." Stan's tone was light, though he sincerely thought Ford lusted for him and was just trying to conceal it. Maybe not 'lusted for him' in the sense that he was going to pounce on him right this second, but the idea surely had to cross his mind from time to time. Certainly had when they were horny teenagers, so why not now?

"Fiddleford broke up with me." It was blunt, rehearsed almost, and the sheer emotionlessness forced Stan into silence for a moment or two because it was just so damn robotic.

But then he couldn't help it. "Did he find out about our undying love for each other? I know you have the hots for me, Sixer."

Hurt flashed in the depths of Ford's eyes, quickly becoming unfocused like he was recalling something again. " _It wasn't a lover's quarrel_."

Oblivious, he teased, "No, that was just us the other day, wasn't it?" Wink.

Ford shuddered, his entire body convulsing for a second but Stan guessed if he was going to vomit, the table was a good place to since it'd be easy to clean afterward. He was just glad when nothing amounted from it.

Unfortunately, there went his confidence things would get better. "So .. Fidd's broke up with you. Did he step on your toes and make you snap or somethin'?"

Ford jumped into a protest, "I didn't _snap_ , I was... "

"You snapped." Stan cut it off. He already knew.

"Yes."

"And instead of tryna make things better, you ran to my booze."

"I walked."

"I should break this bottle over your head for being a smartass." Mockingly, he had grabbed the bottle of whiskey and raised it over his head, as if he was going to bring it down on Ford.

"Too thick, it wouldn't damage anything."

Stan was relieved some humor had returned to his brother, and he dropped the bottle back onto the table. "I forgot it's a trap of steel," he said dryly.

Stan could feel Ford deflating into him further as he sighed, "Steely and stubborn."

"Everything about you is stubborn. It's rather attractive. Like when you were playin' hard to get back when we were teens..."

"Attractive?" he barked a wet laugh, and for the first time Stan noticed his eyes were misty. "I can safely say Fiddleford wouldn't agree, ...but I suppose we'll never know infallibly because I doubt he wants to see me ever again." Quieter, nearly inaudibly, he continued, "I don't blame him."

Stan scoffed. "Fiddleford wouldn't know hot from cold, Sixer. You two were so busy being nerdy together you missed out on the joys of physical attraction and intimacy. C'mon darlin', forget that cocksucker." Seriously. Stan already was.

Ford swallowed thickly, and he was pretty sure he could feel the hesitance radiating off of his brother. "I fear I was terrible to him." The candid confession was unexpected, enough to bring Stan's eyebrow to hitch.

"Not polite _or_ professional?" Stan joked, hoping to lighten the mood, and he felt a twinge of satisfaction when he caught the _tiniest_ hint of a smile on Ford's face.

Lacking conviction, Ford scolded him, "I told you to be serious."

"I was never good at listening." Given his educational history, all the relationships that crumbled… he was not the best listener. "You should know that already." He paused. "So. Fidd's gone after you snapped on him. Want to tell me more about it, or are ya just gonna keep staring at the wall like it's some sort of uh, alien life-form?"

That was all it took to convince Ford to look at him rather than the dumb wall. Good, it sure as hell took him long enough.

"What is there to tell?" he inquired, peering owlishly at him. His eyes were innocently doe-like and a little afraid, and it reminded him of their years before everything got so… complicated.

But still, Ford was dodging the question, so he put it bluntly, "What the fuck actually happened?"

"He spilled coffee over a control panel. It was completely ruined — months of work, and coupled with the portal's destruction…" he trailed off and shook his head. "It led to a fight."

"Ah, coffee. Science's one weakness!"

Blinking, the joke clearly missed its mark since he replied, "Quite the contrary. Caffeine has assisted in many late nights of astonishing productivity."

"Yeah, productively losing all your work." Maybe a touch too harsh since Ford shrank back like he'd been hit, but it was difficult to not point that out after his brother ruined his attempt at humor. "Sorry."

"This is my _career_ , Stan, and I…" his voice quivered, "I am fumbling around like a dim-witted imbecile, not the supposed _genius_ Stanford Pines."

It wasn't much of a career when Ford didn't even make a penny in profit, but Stan kept that to himself. "Alcohol does that to ya. In a bit, you'll be back to your ol' self."

A panicked look crossed Ford's face, and he grabbed for the whiskey, only to have Stan swat his hand away with a stern, "No."

"You said I looked like hell," Ford said after a bout of silence between them. "I _feel_ like hell."

"Yeah, another shot isn't going to help." It'd just make him feel shittier, and they'd both had enough of that. "Look, I once tried to drink away my sorrows when Carla dumped me. I ended up on the side of a road bare-assed naked, with no idea where the hell I was, and I had to try to get someone to stop so I could hitch a ride to town."

"She came over later that night and you ended up engaging in coitus under my bunk bed," Ford bitterly reminded him.

"That's not the point. The point is, drinking doesn't help. It'll just fuck ya up even more, and we wouldn't want you to do anything stupid." Working himself to death, or trying to go after Fiddleford were two possibilities that came to mind. He didn't need that nerd, all he needed was Stan, and he would take care of Ford if that was what he wanted.

"Like sleep with Carla McCorkle?"

Maybe his quip had hit a bit of a nerve, and he vaguely recalled Ford never had liked Carla much. "At least I could get laid. You drove your boyfriend right out of town."

"At least I've _had_ a steady in the past five years."

"Is it really a steady if you didn't do shit with it?"

Ford averted his gaze, taking a long pause before he explained, "We had a mutual interest in pursuing academic growth rather than a romantic relationship."

"Blah, blah, blah, mutual interest in not touching each other. That's called being a pal, Sixer, not a steady. You and I, we were steadies."

"And now we're pals." There was an edge to his tone, but not one he considered to be too serious. It was more like a yellow light, a warning to take this slow if he wanted to push the limit.

"Please," Stan's response was dismissive, "you know you want me. You're already gettin' all snuggly. You used to do this all the time, just before we started grinding, and you took off your pants…" Where was that slap he'd been expecting earlier? Now was the perfect time.

Ford shuffled away from him, settling back into his own seat before shooting him a sideways glance. Under his breath, Stan could hear him mutter about the whiskey or something equally stupid, as if that was a plausible reason for his behavior, probably unable to accept he desired physical affection.

"Playing hard to get again? It's just like the good old days." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, continuing in an attempt to elicit a reaction from Ford. "I wonder if you're as tight as you were then." Stan moved closer to Ford, wondering what the reception of his sexually-charged comment would be, however he didn't plan on acting out any of his desires tonight. If Ford and him were to do anything… he'd rather Ford be stable minded and doing this because he wanted it, not because the alcohol swayed his decision-making. If Ford caved, well, Stan would bottle the temptation to merely kiss his cheek and say 'goodnight'. Leaving him wanting like he did to Stan for years.

" _Stanley_ ," that mournful sound had returned, this time much less entertaining to listen to, "we're not doing this." Distress was etched into his expression, the look he got when he was fighting an internal battle with himself.

"Are ya sure, Sixer? It's not like you're taken anymore." Stan knew he was pressing his luck, perhaps going too far considering Ford endured a breakup only hours ago. He never claimed to be the smoothest romancer. "I can see you want me as much as I want you. Why are you fighting your desires?"

Ford melted into silence, looking at him again with those damn big eyes, as if soul-searching him. Waiting to see what he'd do — Stan determinedly decided he could wait this out, too. But he didn't care for being gawked at like one of his science experiments and wished Ford would say whatever he was going to say and get it over with.

After what felt like an eternity, though was likely no more than ten seconds, his resolve crumbled. His patience had worn thin, and he tried a different approach, something lighter, "I always loved fucking you when you gave me those big eyes of yours." He wasn't completely joking, fondly recalling the times Ford had given him those precious looks.

He could see Ford's throat working, eyes still searching him. "So… you're not serious." Stan couldn't decipher if it was relief or disappointment in his statement.

But it didn't matter, he'd already thrown caution to the wind. "Serious as a heart attack." Stan replied evenly. With all the risk he'd taken tonight, it seemed like it couldn't hurt their relationship by going even further. Ford was hardly reacting as it was, and Stan was growing increasingly more desperate. "I could never get you out of my head. I miss you, Ford. I miss everything about you… us, being together."

* * *

"What do you think that was about?" Dipper asked as they walked through the woods surrounding the Mystery Shack. The forest looked much different in the daytime than it had one particularly fateful rainy night, and he preferred this — the sun was setting as a cool evening approached, but there was plenty of light shining through the trees to light their path.

He hoped they wouldn't have trouble finding their way back, and he was careful to keep mental tabs on which direction the Shack was in at all times. It was hard to focus on that when he was already bombarded with questions about what'd caused Stan to kick them out so suddenly.

Stan hadn't told them how long they'd need to stay out here, just that he'd call whenever they were free to return.

Mabel shrugged helplessly as she kicked around a rock. "I dunno, I didn't get a good look!" It made sense, as she'd been behind Dipper when Stan attempted to block their views. "All I saw was someone's back. Looked kinda nerdy."

Dipper's expression fell flat. "That was me, Mabel."

"You need to play more football, Dipper. You're like if Einstein had a baby with a twig."

"I couldn't see much, but I think it was…" he paused, mind working to remember the name. "That other guy, Ford? Stan's brother. He was crumpled over the table." It'd looked… serious, especially with Stan's reaction, but kicking them out seemed extreme.

Mabel gasped. "Did he die? I knew they were older but I didn't think he'd have a croak!"

Increasingly distressed by the notion, Dipper said, "I don't know! I… wait, do you mean stroke?"

"Tomato, tamato." She shrugged. "If he's dead, does that mean we get to go to the basement?" Another gasp. "What if there's unicorns down there? Or more cute boys?"

"I doubt there are unicorns or cute boys." He dug his hands into his pockets, still internally fretting over the possibilities. "I just hope everything's okay, y'know?" Stan had been kind to them—kinder than most would've been—and although they hadn't interacted with Ford (as per his request), he probably didn't deserve misfortune either if he was anything like his brother.

Her expression became pouty. "I want unicorns! And rainbows! And more dates with cute boys! And puppies! Can we get a puppy, Dipper?"

"I don't think now is the best time to ask Stan for a puppy," he replied, assuming Stan had bigger issues to contend with at the moment.

"Is it a good time to ask him about dating advice?" she inquired. "I wonder where we'll go for our date… Ooh! Will Gideon kiss me? Should I pin him against a wall and kiss him? What should I wear? Or say? What if I say something stupid and he hates me! Or what if he doesn't like the makeup Stan got for me?! Omygosh, what if he asks me to marry him?"

Dipper hadn't been able to get a single word in, and Mabel seemed totally consumed by her own concerns anyway as if she didn't even expect a reply. But he still tried to be supportive. "Just be yourself," he encouraged gently, a smile playing upon his lips. "I'm sure he'll like you how you are! And as for the marriage thing, uh, how old _is_ Gideon?" When he'd seen him earlier, he hadn't looked anywhere near the legal age to get married.

Mabel stopped in thought, her head tipping to a side. "I dunno! It's hard to tell when he's so short… our age, maybe younger?"

He didn't know how Mabel could be so ecstatic over a date when she seemingly knew nothing about said date, but perhaps she was more excited over the prospect of romance rather than who it was with.

His thoughts drifted back to what could've been happening in the Mystery Shack, trying to categorize them from most to least likely, not that he had a lot of theories to begin with. A noise of contemplation escaped him, and he wondered aloud, "Why do you think Stan doesn't want us talking to Ford?" Dipper recalled he'd been very clear about that during their first day on the job.

Mabel watched as her rock sailed into nearby bushes. "Maybe they had a fight? I still think they need to hug it out."

"It must've been a _huge_ fight," Dipper said. "Stan hardly talks about him." In fact, he couldn't remember Stan saying anything about him at all, aside to stay away from him and the basement.

It was like they led lives completely separate from one another, and he couldn't imagine the same happening with him and Mabel. They were each other's greatest resource and closest companion, the best of friends.

"Stan might be more open to talking about him if they made up," she said. "I think they need to have some bonding together."

"Bonding?" he questioned.

"Yes! First, we tell them we need them to check something out, then we lock them in a closet!"

As much as Dipper liked the thought of Stan and Ford getting along, he wasn't sure if they should be meddling in their lives. "Maybe we should stay out of it. It's not our business, Mabel." A pause. "And I don't think we're strong enough for that."

She looked at him with an expression of confusion. "Why do we need to be strong? If they go in willingly, we can slam it behind them and lodge a chair beneath the knob!"

"You do realize they're not going to go in willingly, right?"

"It works in the movies!"

"Besides, we don't even know anything about Ford! I guess we met him once, but Stan might want us to steer clear for a reason." Other than his personal dislike of him, he amended internally. Stan's wishes aside, Dipper was curious about Ford, about their relationship — whatever was going on tonight just amplified it.

Mabel's eyes gleamed. "What if we spied on Ford!"

"Uh," he hesitated, uncertain. "That sounds a little…" Conniving, immoral. He couldn't think of a single positive word that would adequately describe _spying_ on someone.

"Genius? I know! How else will we find anything out about him? Stan won't tell us!"

Dipper wanted to learn more about Ford, but he finally shook his head. Unless Stan changed his mind, they were going to be in the dark about this apparently mysterious brother and the implication of conflict. "Things must be really bad between them."

She didn't seem to have moved on from the spy-on-Ford concept, and the fact it came to her mind was still mildly concerning to Dipper. "Exactly!" Mabel said. "That's why spying on him is the _perfect_ plan!"

Dipper glanced to Mabel, working up the courage to ask, "Do you… do you think we'll ever be like that?" The mere idea of being on less than speaking terms with his favorite person was unthinkable and frightening.

Her expression dropped at his question, becoming more serious. "We'll never be like them!"

At the reassurance, he relaxed. "I don't think we will either." With the stress they'd endured lately, running away from Piedmont together was seemingly the maker or breaker of their bond, and so far they were doing well.

"How could we?" she continued, now looking for another rock to kick around. "It's not like you'll be stealing any of my cute boys from me."

"Aw, come on," Dipper grinned, playfully nudging her. "Mabel, everyone loves you. I couldn't steal anybody from you, cute boy or not."

"I love me too!" She shot him a smile, but her attention was quickly diverted by the sound of other voices.

Alarmed, Dipper paused in his tracks, eyes scanning the forest for the source of the mysterious noise. There were small rustles, seemingly coming from every direction, and he glanced to Mabel, unsure of what to do.

"Did you hear that?" Mabel's voice had dropped to a whisper.

He didn't answer verbally, instead opting to nod his response — if there was someone out here with them, he wanted to be quiet and avoid giving away their position. It felt like his heart was in his throat as he continued to scour the woods, the undergrowth, everything, looking for a sign of life.

The Mystery Shack was a distance away, but they could be back in mere minutes if they sprinted. Dipper mentally noted which direction they'd have to take off in, just in case it—whatever was making the shuffling sounds—pursued.

"Helloooo?" Mabel called out. "Is someone there?"

Unconvinced it would be a harmless entity, Mabel's willingness to call out to it was startling. " _Mabel_ ," Dipper hissed under his breath, shaking his head to indicate that she shouldn't essentially ask the trouble to come to them.

She glanced at him in confusion. "What? I'm only trying to be friendly, Dipper!"

Tempted to tell her that now wasn't the time for friendliness, a voice halted his train of thought.

"Don't come any further!"

Confused, Dipper looked wildly for who had said that, only to realize it came from below and to his disbelief, there stood a gnome. He was sure his heart was going to burst right out of his chest — this wasn't possible, gnomes weren't _real_. All he could do was stare in shock, entranced, at the tiny creature.

How was this happening? Did Mabel see it too, or was he hallucinating?

"Omygosh!" Mabel squealed. "You must be Gideon's brother! That's adorable!" That confirmed she saw it too, but did nothing to ease his racing mind, still trying to process this.

That seemed to make the gnome pause. "What? No! I'm not adorable, I'm dangerous!"

"Are… are you," Dipper gasped, clutching at his chest. Words were lost to a jumbled brain that was trying to sort through reality and fiction. "You're ...a gnome?!"

"Oh! I'm sorry, have you never seen a gnome before? I'm Jeff," the sound of more rustling brought Dipper to the realization that a couple other gnomes had emerged from the bushes, "and the fellas that are surrounding you are Steve, Jason, Carson, and uh, I'm sorry, what's your name?"

"Shmebulock."

"Ah yes, Shmebulock!" Lightly, the gnome – Jeff? hit his forehead. "Of course! How could I forget?"

"I didn't know Gideon had such cute gnome siblings," Mabel said dreamily.

Although he was still in a state of astonishment, Dipper managed to say, "I don't think they're related to Gideon." His eyes were wide as he swept over them, yet he couldn't quite believe it. "They're… actual, real gnomes."

"How can they be gnomes when they're so adorable? Gnomes belong in the garden!"

Jeff visibly bristled. "First you barge into our home, then you insult us with talk of our stuffed brethren! I should have you shredded and fed to the birds!"

If he hadn't been hyperventilating before, he definitely was now that they were being threatened by a small creature, one that was supposedly mythical at that. "Okay, okay, man! Calm down!" he stepped back, placing himself between the gnome and Mabel, his hands coming up in surrender. "We didn't know this was your… home." Who could've guessed that gnomes were so territorial?

"Now you do!" Jeff still looked tense, like he'd jump at Dipper any second. "You should leave before we make you!" His voice had dropped to a low hiss.

Mabel leaned to whisper in Dipper's ear. "It's like angry kittens!"

"I.. I think we should be leaving," Dipper suggested with more than a hint of worry, turning around to gently push Mabel backwards. "Let's see if Stan is ready for us yet." Or he didn't care where they went, as long as they left the gnomes alone; he wasn't interested in finding out what they could do when angered, since they seemed to be treading the line by even being here in the first place.

She looked disappointed. "But I wanted to see if they'd release their little claws!" After another angry hiss from Jeff and the Gnome Gang, she relented, and Dipper grabbed her hand to drag her back in the direction they'd come from.

"Do you think he's made pasta?"

* * *

Despite the sexual comments and suggestive eyebrow wiggles, Stan had surprised him by saying something so candid, so genuine and horrifyingly _honest_ , that it had created a hushed silence between them.

When he'd asked if Stan was serious, Ford had been hoping he would crack into a fit of laughter.

This… was much heavier. And unexpected.

Frightening, really.

It was brutally straightforward and gave them no choice but to face the question of 'them' head on, and he didn't think he was in any state to do such a thing.

The desperation etched on Stan's features had his heart aching, and he wished there was a simple way to dodge this conversation, the inevitable moment that'd make or break a relationship between them — he wasn't ready for it, nor in an acceptable state to engage in it, but his whiskey-clouded mind couldn't conjure an easy escape route.

Each moment of silenced looked like it was getting to Stan, who shuffled uncomfortably in his seat.

Ford was conflicted, caught between telling Stan exactly what he wanted to hear or trying to let him down as gently as possible, disinterested in the proposition. He didn't know which one was honest anymore, or if either accurately reflected how he felt.

And Stan wasn't giving him an out by breaking first and changing the subject, giving him something different to latch onto. He was silent, they both were, and the air was tense and thick around them with _those words_ lingering.

"Stanley, I…" he started, fidgeting. Ford didn't know how to continue, what to say. This situation was overwhelming, and it didn't help that he was still struggling to emotionally process the breakup with Fiddleford.

The flicker of hope in Stan's gaze was going to be the death of him. "Is that a yes?"

Once again, he decided that the wall was a much nicer view than Stan's face because he didn't want to see the disappointment, the pain, whatever could be hiding there.

To put it simply, Ford was afraid. Downright terrified. He didn't want to hurt Stan, but he didn't know what _he_ wanted.

"...Ford?" Stan's voice grew quiet. "You're giving the wall the 'Fiffleford' look again. Are you… are you thinking about him? Getting back together?"

That brought Ford out of his daze, and he shook his head quickly. "What? No! Of course not." The thought was absurd. He was going to miss having an assistant and a companion in his research, but would he miss the relationship? Likely not. "I'm not even sure of his whereabouts." Ford hadn't asked, Fiddleford hadn't offered, but one educated guess would be the bus stop.

"Are ya sure? 'Cause, y'know, you did just break up with him, and there was all that … sadness with you talking about your break up." Stan was struggling to speak, his gaze growing downcast from Ford.

"You were right about what you said," he mumbled, recalling Stan's earlier comment. "We were pals, not… steadies. I'm not pining after him." Maybe he never had been and was merely infatuated with the idea of having someone who understood that side of him.

"Are ya pining after me?" Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Stan was glancing up at him. That hope, the thing Ford loathed so deeply, was back in his voice.

Ford peered to Stan, feeling like he couldn't breathe again. It was another question that required deep introspection, it was much more than a simple yes or no. It was a proposition, he knew very well, to become what they used to be, and he couldn't determine if he could handle that… or even desired it.

His mind felt a muddled mess. All the intelligence in the world— _genius_ , he scoffed to himself, the word mocking him—couldn't help here.

"... Is that a no?"

"I don't know!" he finally replied, the words spilling from him in a fit of frustration, exhausted with the lack of cooperation from his brain, and uncertainty was tugging him every which way. Softening, Ford reiterated, "I'm not sure, Stan."

Stan looked up at him. "How can you not be sure? You're... you." A hand motioned to him. "You're sure about everything."

Emotional fatigue was weighing down on him, hard, but he had to make Stan understand this wasn't as uncomplicated as he seemed to believe. "Consider this," Ford said, "earlier this morning, I would have told you I was sure that Fiddleford and I would still be in a relationship at the end of the day. Certainly shows how much I know." The whiskey had been a surprise too, but he'd brought that one on himself.

"You sure as hell know more than I do. I was bettin' you wouldn't have lasted a week from when ya started."

At least Stan knew how to manage feelings. Ford's were a complete wreck, all over the place, and he was trying hard to shut them out and look at this objectively. "I would've bet that it was a lifelong commitment, so you won."

"You never were very committed to anything but science."

"Yet somehow you're convinced that I'd be your ideal steady." Ford wanted to sigh his emotionally dumb brains out.

"With an ass as fine as yours, I can't lose."  
Was that what this was about? If it was a purely physical attraction that Stan was experiencing toward him, perhaps this issue wasn't nearly as severe as he'd originally thought… If this was nothing more than physical, he could decline and there would be no devastation or subsequent awkwardness between them aside from Stan having to ...take care of his own needs, later.

A bit perplexed, Ford stared at his brother for a moment as he tried to decipher whether or not he was joking.

"What?" Stan stared back at him. "Look, I get you're not the most … romantically there, Ford. I don't expect that from you. But don't go thinkin' for a moment I don't love that smartass brain of yours, even though I sometimes want to bash it."

With a sinking feeling, he realized they were at square one. Worse yet, he still owed Stan an answer; he knew he hadn't forgotten, and he didn't think it was fair to leave without a reply since Stan had put his heart on his sleeve for this discussion. That was a rarity.

It was incredibly brave when they'd been at ends for many years, to say those feelings remained without a trace of playfulness or an option of backing out. Stan had laid it before them, and Ford assumed he was probably internally fretting over it more than he let on. He always had been the better actor, liar, between the two of them.

Stan must have thought he hated him. His feedback had been less than positive, after all. Borderline none. The thought nagged at Ford, a sharp reminder that it was his turn to make a move; Stan likely wouldn't, and worse, might back off entirely if this didn't end in their relationship advancing.

"How _can_ I ascertain what I want right now?" It skirted the issue at best, and he couldn't tell if it was a reply to Stan or simply voicing his thoughts aloud. "I've been through one breakup and half a pint of whiskey this evening." It was an absolute emotional rollercoaster.

Stan moved closer to him, reaching to set his hand over Ford's and although he stiffened at the contact, he didn't pull away. "It's not like we didn't have somethin' before, darlin'. Stop fightin' yourself so much."

The familiarity of _them_ sounded comforting, especially now when it felt his love life and career were falling to shambles, broken apart and laying strewn like the pieces of the portal. He missed the stability of Stan, the stolen kisses, the adventure and racing hearts — it was a time where their futures were combined into a basic dream they shared. Not… this twisted web they were currently in.

But Ford didn't trust his judgment, and it was making him hesitate. Logically, he was aware he wasn't of sound mind when he'd been drinking earlier, and breaking up with Fiddleford had been tough.

Facing those less-than-perfect parts of himself… Ford shuddered, about to mull over the problematic nature of what his former assistant had said but Stan had his concentrating crumbling.

"You're thinkin' way too hard about this, doll."

Ford was drawn to Stan's earnesty, his wide eyes locked on Stan's. "You'll find someone else again." Despite willing his words to be steady, they wavered with vulnerability. And he hated it. The confession of fear was out before he could stop it, a reflection of many troubled nights as he'd thought about their previous relationship.

Stan's eyes flashed. "No one can replace you."

He felt choked. "Carla." Just like that, they were suddenly back to being teens and the pain of Stan moving on—well, from his perspective—had been too much for him then, and he was unwilling to thrust himself into a similar situation only to go through it when Stan found someone better.

"What– oh." Stan seemed stumped by this, if only briefly. "You threw yourself into science before I even knew she existed. It was like I was on the back burner, an afterthought of all your precious work."

Fiddleford's warning resounded in his head, loudly, with painful clarity. _You never even bothered to do anythin' romantic with me, and I was supposed to be yer boyfriend._ Ford wanted to cover his ears, not that it'd help block out the offending memory.

He was determined to never let that happen again. He couldn't hurt Stan.

Ford winced, his headache was going to kill him, and everything still felt too overwhelming. "You're more important to me," it was hardly audible, a small albeit heartfelt admission.

"You are too, Ford."

"Give me time to think about this. Please." Ford murmured, "You shouldn't be a… a rebound." After the alcohol had worn off, and the breakup behind him, he would be in a better position to seriously consider the possibility of them.

He didn't want to regret it. That would just hurt Stan more than if he rejected him this second.

Stan's eyes narrowed as if in examination, inching toward Ford as he raised his hand to cup Ford's jawline. He shivered at the touch, naturally leaning into it as Stan's eyes gazed into his, seeking signs of objections as he began to lean in.

Mouth going slack and eyes becoming glassy, Ford's lips parted instinctively. They'd been here before, he realized through the haze of desire, he knew where this was going.

But oh god, that meant… it meant Stan was going to kiss him. A kiss would be the natural progression of things, after all.

And he was going to _let him_.

With that in mind, he should be alarmed. Panicked. Disgusted. Pushing him back, but none of that happened. Instead, he could feel his heart beating faster as Stan continued to close the gap between them, and his breath hitched in anticipation, eyelids fluttering closed.

Maybe it was the alcohol, but he was starting to believe he really, really wanted this.

Feeling the soft wisp of Stan's exhale ghosting across his skin, their lips were mere millimeters apart, and he wondered what Stan would taste like, if he still had the same taste that was uniquely and undeniably _Stan_ even after—

The sounds of footsteps alerted them to the presence of someone approaching, and Stan quickly pulled away, his attention on the entrance to the kitchen.

"OMYGOSH! STAN! YOU WOULDN'T BELIEVE WHAT JUST HAPPENED!"

The new presence had snapped Ford out of his previous thoughts, quickly recollecting himself. Whatever had been about to happen… perhaps it was best that it hadn't, he thought miserably, but it did leave him wanting.

Hazily, he remembered Stan had locked the foyer door… they must have found it important enough to burst through one of the many other entrances.

"Did another boy ask you out?" Stan's voice was dry, and it was clear to Ford he was annoyed by the interruptions.

A second later, a strained and huffing Dipper joined her, clutching his chest like he was trying to keep his breathing in check to no avail. He looked suspended between disbelief and afraid. "Gnomes! There… there are _gnomes_!" A pause to gasp for air. "Real gnomes!"

Ford's interest was immediately piqued by the boy's discovery. "Gnomes?" he echoed, standing up from the chair with a sudden burst of energy. All thoughts of what'd gone on before their arrival were forgotten. Receiving a nod from Dipper and a confirming screech from Mabel, Ford explained enthusiastically, "I've been attempting to document them! I'm aware of their presence, but they're notoriously difficult to locate."

"This room has gotten disgustingly more nerdy," Stan commented.

"Stanley, hush!" Ford shushed him with a dismissive wave, not even glancing away from the twins.

He grumped. "I'll make ya hush, Ford."

Although he heard Stan, he was too distracted to care. "Near Gravity Falls? What were they like, would you be able to describe them? How many were there? My research has suggested they gather in small communities, villages, if you will, that can range from—"

Mabel was quick to provide some descriptions, albeit they seemed questionable. "They were short, and like mini-Gideons but kitty-like! They hissed, and had pointy little hats like Santa, and I wanted to squish their widdle noses!"

"And… and this one gnome, Jeff I guess, he said.. we were in his territory!" Dipper added, steadily catching his breath but still hunched over.

"They're territorial? Intriguing," Ford mused to himself, mentally taking notes on what the kids said, even if he wasn't really sure who or what a 'Gideon' was. The name had been tossed around a few times, though…

While he'd lived in Gravity Falls over a year now, he didn't get out much.

Mabel rambled on, "He had a bunch of gnomes surround us when he threatened us. But they were sooo cute!"

"I just can't believe they're REAL," Dipper stressed, pacing the expanse of the foyer as he gripped his hat. Ford noted it was suspiciously similar to one of the gift shop items.

"I can't believe they're so adorable! Can we keep one?"

"If you want a gnome, sweetie, we can steal one from Lazy Susan's garden." Stan glanced at the excited teenager as she squealed more, his hand slowly snaking its way to the half-full bottle of whiskey.

"Nonsense," Ford huffed. "I've been hoping to capture a live specimen for my studies, stealing won't be necessary. However, I've had no luck finding their colonies." His eyes settled on Dipper, hopeful. "Would you be able to detail where you found them? Or.. better yet, you could take me to them." It would leave less room for errors, and he'd be able to document them in his journal _at last_.

Dipper's face seemed to light up, and he nodded with an eagerness that Ford found familiar. "Yes, of course!"

"Before ya get too excited," Stan butted in, effectively putting a damper on the mood, "it's too late to go runnin' into the woods. You'll just get lost in the dark. Ya should wait 'til tomorrow once Dipper's off work."

Ford scoffed, he'd been out later than this; he knew the woods in the daylight and by the moon, so he didn't see the issue. "Do you realize this could be a major breakthrough in my research?" he asked, fingers already itching to write down the new information about gnomes. "I've encountered enough setbacks as it is, with the portal—"

"It can wait a night, Ford. These kids don't know the woods at all, and the last thing they need is to be blunderin' through it in the dark with you 'supervising' them. Let's have dinner, get to bed, and we can have an early start in the mornin'."

"Speaking of dinner…" Mabel began to speak. "You KICKED US OUT FOR HOURS, and THERE'S NO PASTA? I can't believe you lied to me!" She pouted, her arms crossing over her chest.

Ford stared at her, wondering what kind of residents they had acquired since the little lady was already making demands like she owned the place. As for Dipper, he seemed… out of shape, and slightly sweaty, but at least they apparently shared a common interest in the unknown.

"Uh…" Stan glanced at Ford for help. "Now that uh, things have been settled, we can make pasta sweetie! Get the noodles and start cookin'!"

"But you said–"

Stan tsked her. "I told ya, it's the responsibility of you and Dipper to cook."

Dipper looked critically at Stan. "What happened to not being responsible for dinner tonight?"

He vaguely recalled the exchange from earlier but Ford wasn't sure who was right or wrong, or if it mattered — he was tempted to make the pasta himself if it was going to be such a problem.

"Plans change, kiddo. Now get to work!" Stan's tone was clearly dismissive.

Dipper seemed to know better than to protest at that. "Let's get dinner started, Mabel," he said as he moved further into the kitchen, beginning to prepare ingredients. "Uh, Stan… how many are we cooking for?" His eyes slid from Stan to Ford, then back to Stan again as if he didn't want to be caught staring.

Ford raised an eyebrow at the kid's hesitance. Why he hadn't asked directly left him wondering if Stan had said something negative about him in their presence, and with suspicion, he peered to his brother as well.

"Are you staying for dinner?" Stan passed the question to Ford.

"Please!" Mabel stopped helping dinner in favor of peering at Ford with big eyes. "Please! You need to stay!"

Although he was on the fence about having dinner with them initially, her insistence was hard to resist, and he didn't want to disappoint… but there was the persistent feeling that Stan had told the kids about him. "I suppose if Stan doesn't mind my intrusion on his family time," he muttered dryly.

"If I wanted ya gone, I woud've kicked your scrawny ass out by now." His tone wasn't without affection.

"Language." Stan didn't need to expose the houseguests to his sailor's tongue. He didn't mind it when they were alone, but these two were barely more than overgrown children.

Mabel squealed and pumped an arm in victory. "Yay! Now you can hug it out and I _don't_ have to lock you in a closet!"

Ford inhaled sharply in surprise. What? He made a mental note to never go into a closet at Mabel's request.

To his horror, Stan laughed. "Sounds like seven minutes in heaven, huh?" He nudged Ford.

Unsure how to respond, his cheeks pinkened slightly — Stan shouldn't be doing this in front of children either — it was bad enough that he was a flirt to begin with. "...Ah," he cleared his throat, "I don't believe I ever quite… grasped the concept of that game." Where was the fun in locking oneself in a closet with another person? It made no sense.

"I loved that game," Mabel said. "I remember Dipper," who seemed too busy dealing with a noodle fiasco to contribute, "hated it because he ended up kissing a watermelon with mop hair."  
Stan roared in laughter. "How'd he manage to do that? Did no one go in with the nerd?"

"Someone did, but she wedged herself in the corner and pushed the watermelon in front of her so he smooched it instead. Everyone opened the door on him while he was going at it!"

By now, Dipper had tuned in to the conversation and whined, " _Mabel_."

This was a lot more than Ford ever wanted to know. He was the one with a thirst for knowledge, yet this was leading him to think that staying for dinner had been a mistake. It was the same sort of gossip that he didn't engage in while he was still in school.

Allowing them to indulge in their discussion while he daydreamed, he sat down at the table and awkwardly drummed his fingers against the wood.

The movement had caught Mabel's attention, and she poked at his fingers, noticing there was an extra pinky on each hand. "Why is your hand so freaky?"

Ford flinched at the word. He was accustomed to it since it'd been tossed at him countless times over the years, but it was no easier to hear. Crampelter's unending taunting, prying strangers, his own father… Swallowing thickly, he removed his hands from the table to place them in his lap instead, shame burning at him.

He reminded himself it was an innocent question, if not poorly phrased, and he felt tongue-tied as he prepared a suitable reply to her curiosity.

"Mabel." All amusement in Stan's voice had vanished, an edge to his words. "There is nothing wrong with his hands, ya hear me? Now drop it. Weren't ya supposed to be helping Dipper make dinner?""

By now, Dipper was also peering at them, squinting as if trying to see the _freakiness_ for himself. It only made him more self-conscious.

"Stan," he sounded a little breathless, but forced a smile. "It's okay." Glancing to Mabel, Ford raised one of his hands with the fingers spread, "I have six fingers on each hand. I can understand why you might find that…" the word _freaky_ was burned in his mind, "unusual."

"That's so cooool," Mabel whispered, awestruck. "I'd kill for them." Not the reaction he'd expected, but a pleasant change of pace… probably. This one was kind of unnerving him with her talk of closets and killing, but he appreciated her honesty and enthusiasm.

"Can I… touch?" Mabel slowly reached out to touch his fingers. He stayed still as her fingers lightly grazed his skin, running along where his extra digits met his hand. "Dipper," she called over to her brother, "can I have your pinkies?"

"You're being creepy," he called back. "Also, dinner's done! ...I think."

"Am not!" She protested.

"Alright, that's enough." Stan got to his feet. "How do ya only think it's done? Did ya burn it or somethin'?"

Ford watched in mild amusement as Stan joined Dipper at the stove, the teen motioning into the pot of noodles as he explained, "I didn't burn it! It just looks done, y'know? And it's been boiling for a while… do you think it's ready?"

"Hell if I know. They look like tapeworms."

Dipper made a noise of disgust. "That's so gross."

"You still hungry, kiddo?"

Although that divulged into a brief conversation about appropriate comments to make when they were about to eat, they soon plated up the food and relocated to the living room. It was more spacious than the tiny kitchen, and everyone had a spot around the television. A rerun of the final season of _The Andy Griffith Show_ was on, albeit Stan didn't look pleased.

"Where the hell did Knotts go?" he grumped, shoveling a forkful of pasta into his mouth. He didn't seem to care that he was chewing as he continued, "This show is shit without him!"

Ford rolled his eyes. "Most of his antics were mere comedy relief and didn't add to the show's plot." While Barney did have charm, the stories were no longer being railroaded for a simple laugh or two in the last season.

"He added plenty of plot!" Stan argued. "If it weren't for him, those fine fellas wouldn't have been released from being unfairly imprisoned!" He figured Stan was referring to the abundance of times that Knotts' character stupidly let the criminals escape from the courthouse jail, and forced others to clean up his mess.

"I disagree. Deputy Barney Fife was a menace to Mayberry."

Mabel looked up from her pasta, a string hanging in her mouth. "You're arguing over a TV show… is this why you split apart?"

Alarmed, Ford wasn't sure if she was intuitively stitching together the clues of bad blood between him and Stan (though it wasn't over a television show), or if Stan had mentioned something to them as he'd already theorized. Argument forgotten, he coughed and muttered, "No."

He hoped that would be the end of it, and they could enjoy the rest of their dinner in peace.

"So why _did_ you split apart?" Dipper asked too curiously to be ashamed, looking up from the journal he was scribbling in rather than paying attention to the television. Ford recognized the reddish cover of the book as a blank copy of the journals he used for his research, not that he minded — he liked to believe he understood teenage angst and the desire to document those struggles, if that was what Dipper was doing. It was a healthy outlet.

Stan scowled at the both of them. "That's none of your businesses, kids. You can take further questions out to the trash!"

While normally an advocate of exploring questions, Ford was relieved Stan didn't offer them any details. That information—and painful piece of their lives—was to stay between the two of them.

Besides, Stan may have been fond of these two, but he still didn't know either very well.

"Aw." Mabel gave them a sad look before she went back to eating through her second bowl.

They finished up the remainder of their pasta, and Mabel collected all the plates to bring them to the kitchen as Dipper followed behind, scribbling last notes in his journal entry.

For a some time, they could hear the two playfully bickering back and forth as they cleaned the kitchen and all dishes that were used for the evening meal, meanwhile Stan and Ford watched the television in relative silence, only sharing a few words between them. Namely: "pass the remote" and "okay."

Ford regretted handing it over, because soon _The Andy Griffith Show_ was replaced by coverage on the war.

"Fight, fight, fight!" He could hear his brother chant beside him, and Ford's stomach churned uneasily as images of wounded soldiers and a war-stricken Vietnam appeared on the screen.

Needless to say, he retrieved the remote to go back to something less... graphic. Just because the teenagers weren't physically present, preoccupied by their dish washing, didn't mean they should be watching that, and Stan's inappropriate response wasn't helping his case.

He knew all too well about those insensitive wooden figures of soldiers that Stan pawned off to the town, and that was just touching the surface of terrible ways his brother incorporated the ongoing war into his marketing schemes.

"Hey!" Stan attempted to grab the remote back. "I was watchin' that!"

Ford held it away from him, unwilling to return to the news — all the media showed was war-related segments. "You could at least show a shred of respect."

"Oh please, those suckers don't deserve it and you know it, you goddamn hippie."

"I'm a pacifist," Ford corrected. "Objecting to the war is not the same as being disrespectful of those fighting in it."

Stan laughed at him. "You weren't very pacifistic when we were fightin' a few days ago."

That was still a fresh wound, and he faintly suspected it was the event that served as not just a catalyst to the portal's destruction, but his falling out with Fiddleford. "I didn't _want_ to fight you," he stressed, "but you—"

"I didn't think a peace-loving dove would fight back."

As much as he wished to point out any fighting he'd done was in self-defense, precisely to get Stan away from him (or off of him), he was too tired for this argument. The lingering effects of the alcohol were making him sleepy, and the emotional drain of the day was wearing on him enough to convince him to stay silent.

Stan had given up on trying to get the remote, relaxing back into his armchair. "Kids! Ya done yet? It doesn't take a year to throw some dishes in the sink!"

A reply of "we're almost done!" turned into the kids joining them in the living room within a couple minutes, and then they were back to watching television together. There was a bit of idle conversation, but it was clear the day was winding down, so it wasn't long before the kids retreated upstairs to go to bed with a reminder from Stan that they were needed bright and early at the Shack.

Ford was acutely aware that he should be spending this time working rather than sitting upstairs, especially given the portal's disrepair, but he couldn't bring himself to go. He didn't want to face the loneliness of the basement, knowing there'd be no Fiddleford down there for a change.

Just him, his notebooks, and a pile of scrap metal. That was all it was at this point, and…

And that was depressing.

"Are ya gonna head to bed?" Stan inquired to Ford. "I can't imagine you wantin' to jump back to work after the hell of today."

"Yes," he answered truthfully. He didn't add that he dreaded going to work tomorrow. "What time is it?" He'd lost track somewhere between the kids disappearing to sleep, and old reruns of _Leave It To Beaver._

Stan glanced at his watch, squinting in the dull light. "Goin' on midnight, now."

Ford hummed in reply, finding that interesting since he was usually sleeping during the mid-hours of the morning, or… whenever he had an opportunity to catch a couple hours of rest. He didn't have a set schedule when his work demanded his full attention most days. But this seemed late for Stan, and he asked, "What about you?"

"Planning on it soon," he said. "Wanted to know what you were up to. Mainly so if you didn't go to bed, I could make ya."

"I feel uncharacteristically exhausted this evening." It'd be nice to not struggle to fall asleep for once.

"Maybe ya shouldn't have hit my stash. Booze does that, Sixer."

A half-hearted smile pulled at his lips. In retrospect, that had been a poor idea, an ineffective way of grieving over his friendship with Fiddleford, but there was no going back now. Stan's comfort had been appreciated too, but he didn't know if he wanted to think about that yet. It was difficult, still made him feel conflicted. It was a topic for tomorrow. Thoughts drifting to the whiskey, he said, "I was going to ask what I owed you."

With a smirk, Stan almost instantly responded. "A kiss."

Honestly, he should've expected such a reply from Stan, but he knew it wasn't serious. "Oh? I thought you would've taken the opportunity to ask for something more," he said, attempting to humor him, "like oral sex. Or…" He blushed, he couldn't do it.

"Please," Stan said. "I'd love for you to suck my cock but I figured you'd like it better if I was… whatchacallit, _classier_."

"Do I at least get to choose where the kiss is?"

"Are you gonna give my head a smooch?" His smirk had returned.

His eyebrows knitted together, surprised by how innocent the request appeared to be. "If— if that's what you'd like?"

"The head of my dick, darlin'."

Oh..

OH.

"No." He should've known there were strings attached to this. "I thought you were trying to be classier."

"Ya sure you don't want to give it some lovin'? It misses you dearly."

"At this point," he shuffled his weight, looking embarrassed by the topic at hand, "I'll not only pay you for the whiskey, I'll pay you to stop."

"With what money?" Stan raised an eyebrow at him.

Ford hesitated, tempted to tell Stan he could pay using the grant money since he still had plenty of it, but he knew that wasn't really an option. Plus, he viewed this whole problem as theoretical.

"That's what I thought, doll. Don't try to bribe me with money ya don't got."

"Does that mean I'll have to work off my debt to you too now?" he asked sarcastically, a reference to the teens and their presence in the Shack.

"Nah, ya haven't broken my dick yet."

"Should I be concerned about what you've done with those children?"

Stan gave him a blank look. "The only person in this house who's seen or had my dick inside them is you, Ford."

"Is that so? You seem to fuck over tourists exceedingly often." Such language was abnormal for him, but the grin on his face said he couldn't resist.

"Yeah, but they don't see my penis like you do." He winked at him.

Flushing, he averted his gaze and decided it had probably gone far enough. A tiny part of him was worried that if they continued, the conversation pertaining to _them_ earlier might come back to haunt him before he'd had sufficient time to weigh his thoughts on the matter. Carding a six-fingered hand through his hair, Ford murmured, "It's getting late."

"It's been late," Stan said. "I've been havin' a good time."

He hummed dismissively, rising to his feet. "I ought to sleep." Whether he would or not was questionable, though he still felt drained from the events of the day.

Stan stood as well. "We can always sleep together again, Sixer."

"We're not children anymore." Sharing beds seemed like a relic of the past, he couldn't even recall the last time they'd been in the same bed but estimated it'd been at least eight years.

A laugh. "That's not what I meant."

It clicked after a second, and he bashfully clasped his hands behind his back. This stance, the shyness… it was another relic of their teenage years. "O-oh." His throat felt dry.

"Sounds familiar. Like when you first lost that virginity of yours..."

Surely, Ford thought, they had to be too old for this. Too old to be flirting like sexually-frustrated high schoolers. " _Stanley_ ," he near-whined, face warming. "I—I'm going to sleep." After a second, he rushedly added before Stan could comment, "Alone."

"Stop teasing me, Sixer. You got me all excited." Even so, Stan flashed him a grin. It was wolfish, predatory. "Goodnight, Poindexter."

Ford let out a little muffled noise, turning on his heels to disappear into the hallway and go to his bedroom.


End file.
